


what do you want (that you do not have)

by thimbleful



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Road Trip, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, barely any plot, not a kidnapping fic, oh and when i say slow burn i mean it lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 95,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimbleful/pseuds/thimbleful
Summary: When the Winterfellians learn that Cersei has hired men to kidnap Sansa, they decide that Sansa needs to run away and Jon volunteers to protect her. During their travels the tension builds between them--especially after Jon suffers an injury and they're taken in by an older couple. Because, in hopes of protecting their identities, Jon and Sansa have to pretend to be happily married and in love. Every day. In close quarters. For quite some time.Takes place after the war against the NK is won. Not a kidnapping fic.





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> So. If you've read my previous multi chapter fics you might assume this will be plotty. But it will not! The kidnapping is just an excuse to get these two to pretend to be married. This fic is going to be fluffier and very focused on Jon and Sansa's relationship and their hopes and dreams for the future. And because it's still me (and Jon and Sansa are still a bit messed up) there will be angst. But it's not a suspenseful violent fic. Hope you guys enjoy!

Sansa takes one last look at Winterfell’s bustling courtyard. The blacksmith is heating up the forge, fishermen are delivering today’s catch to the cooks, and scullery maids run between kitchen and well to prepare breakfast for the workers already repairing the bruised but still sturdy castle. On the walkway, squinting at the hazy morning light, stands an equally bruised but sturdy Arya. She’s not to use the stairs until her wounds have healed lest she tears her stitches, and so she merely leans against the railing and lifts her good hand in goodbye. Brienne is next to her, ready to support if needed, her face the picture of worry. A worry Arya doesn’t let show, even though Sansa knows she shares it. Worry and frustration over her injuries keeping her at Winterfell now that Sansa needs her more than ever.

After waving back, Sansa mounts the horse and follows Jon through the gates. All morning, he’s stewed in brooding silence over having to take this journey with her, and that silence extends down slush-filled roads and trails where sprouts of green shine among muddy brown and winter white. Whenever she glances at him, his eyes are either on the road or on the fields surrounding them, so she lets him sulk in peace. He clearly needs it. And after all the chaos lately, a handful quiet hours on horseback isn’t unwelcome to her either. Out here the world is peaceful, the only sounds bird song and snow crunching under hooves and the gentle drip of icicles melting where they hang like glittering spears from the naked branches of birch and oak and elm. When she closes her eyes and lets the horse follow Jon’s lead, she can almost forget the horrors they went through barely a week ago. She can almost forget all those eerily blue eyes and the bony fingers scrambling for purchase on her clothes as she ran and the cries of those less lucky.

At noon Jon leads the horses into a glade protected by the quiet woods, where snow still lingers in deep banks and the shadows chill her to the bones. He finds bread and thick slices of ham in the saddlebags and when he hands her the food and his eyes flicker up to meet hers, he looks at her properly for the first time since this morning. He looks at her and jolts.

With a grimace, he returns his attention to the saddlebag. “Still not used to that.”

Sansa tucks her black braid back under the hood of her cloak. “If you could find it in yourself to actually interact with me, I’m sure that would change.”

“Do you want me to protect you or not? I need to focus.” He gestures at the wood--the rather empty wood. “Now eat your food and stretch your legs. And make water. Once we’re off again, we’re not stopping until nightfall.”

Stuffing his mouth with ham, he peers between the trees as though the men hired to kidnap Sansa have, by some magic, already reached the North and know precisely where to look.

“You could at least make some smalltalk, or this will be a long and boring journey for the both of us.”

Jon sighs and gives a nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” she says, brushing crumbs off her skirts, and then silence settles over them like a musty old blanket.

She blames the truth about his parentage for creating this unease between them. While he and Arya fell back into their old rhythm instantly, something changed between him and Sansa that day. Ever since, whenever Sansa and Jon interact, it’s as if they’re trying to dance together while hearing different songs. They step on each other’s toes, follow different beats, and can’t decide who should lead. When she presses forward, so does he and they stumble into one another. When she stops to read him, so does he and they end up completely still instead of moving forward. And when she backs away, so does he and the divide between them grows. Which was why she was so relieved when Jon volunteered to travel with her. Isn’t this exactly what they need? Time alone to get to know one another again--only for him to make it utterly impossible with all this brooding.

Perhaps they should talk about it, how they struggle in this new relationship of theirs. Sansa glances at him through the corner of her eye. He's honing the blade he's borrowed, his dark curls tumbling over his eyes. He's not the only one getting used to staring at a familiar person with an unfamiliar appearance. His hair is all wrong, Longclaw is back at Winterfell, and he wears another man's clothes, the cloak she sewed him hanging in his wardrobe. This is what he must've looked like when he was a ranger with the Night's Watch and traveled beyond the Wall and lived with the wildlings.

As though he feels her eyes on him, Jon slows down his movements but doesn't meet her gaze and she can't decide whether it's an invitation to talk or wish for her to stay silent, so silent she stays.

 

* * *

 

When they stop for the night, she can’t hold back a gasp of pain as she dismounts. Her poor body isn’t used to riding this much and protests with each movement, legs somehow both stiff and buckling at the same time. But when she falters Jon is there, wrapping a strong arm around her back and helping her to a flat rock covered with soft moss and a dusting of snow. He brushes off the snow and helps her ease down, brow furrowed with concern.

“Rest,” he says, rubbing her arm. “It’s going to feel even worse tomorrow.”

“How comforting.”

His mouth twists into something resembling a smile. Then he hands her food and, as she nibbles on it, he gathers branches of evergreen which he fashions into a mattress beneath a spruce tree whose branches dip into the snow. In the saddlebags he finds blankets which he spreads over the prickly bed that looks surprisingly inviting to her. Now that the sun has lowered beneath the horizon, the wind is harsh instead of crisp, and she’s already shivering and sick of sitting. It would be so sweet stretch out on that bed, but her legs won’t obey her command, so she tucks the cloak more tightly around her body and watches Jon as he wolves down his food and tends to the horses.

Once he’s done, he takes one look at her and her miserable state and shakes his head. “If you need help, Sansa, all you have to do is tell me.”

“I’m all right.”

“Your lips are blue. Come on.” He wraps his arm around her again. “Up you get.”

Biting her lip, Sansa stifles a string of curses that would make Arya proud and Mother appalled when Jon helps her move between the rock and the tree, where she crawls underneath the canopy of low-hanging branches. In here the world is even more quiet and still, the thick foliage sheltering her from sound and wind. And when Jon joins her in their makeshift bed, shielding her from the draft still leaking in through the gap between branches and ground, and tucks sleeping skins around them, it gets warmer still. If she were to snuggle closer to him, it could even become toasty, but Jon has been careful to leave a hand-breadth between them and Sansa stays where she is.

“Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night,” she says, peering at him in the dark. Her eyes have adjusted to the lack of light and she can see the slope of his nose, the shadow his lashes cast on his cheek, and the soft curve of his relaxed lips. She can also see how those lips tighten when she whispers his name.

“What,” he says but it sounds like a sigh.

“Who are we supposed to be? Shouldn’t we decide?”

“I don’t know. Just pick a name.”

“Jon, during our ride, I was thinking about what would be safest. And I think we should travel as husband and wife.”

He emits an odd, strangled noise. Then he’s quiet for so long she wonders whether it was a snore, but just as she’s about to nudge him awake, he speaks: “We’re traveling as sister and brother.”

“They’ll know to look for a brother and sister traveling.”

“Then we’ll travel as cousins.”

“If we travel as cousins, we can’t share a room if we stay at an inn. We can barely do it as brother and sister! We look nothing alike, Jon. People will assume things, and assumptions create gossip and gossip attracts attention. But if we travel as husband and wife, no one will bat an eye.”

“Let them bat their eyes. We’re traveling as brother and sister.”

“You can protect me better as a husband.”

“I can protect you just fine as a brother.”

Sansa sighs deeply, demonstratively, but he still keeps his eyes stubbornly closed.

“All right, we’ll travel as brother and sister. But who are we? Why are we traveling--and to where? What are our names?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? Just go to sleep.”

“You’re just like when we were children. You never wanted to play.”

He opens his eyes, then, but only to scowl at her. “I played all the time!”

“With Robb and Theon and Arya. Never with me and Jeyne and Beth.”

“I did too.”

“Yes, when we begged you. And you always made it seem like a chore, as though you'd rather be sulking somewhere than play a gallant knight who saved us from monsters.”

“It’s not the same. This isn’t a game. It’s not playing. It’s not monsters-and-maidens, because this monster is actually trying kill you.”

“Are you going to be like this the whole time?”

“Like what.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know. You didn’t have to volunteer.”

“Yes I did.” Struggling to keep the sleeping skins still, he manages to turn his back to her without any cold air rushing in. “Go to sleep. We’re leaving at sunup.”

Brienne’s too tall. And a woman. They’d draw attention to themselves. As would Sansa escorted to the Vale by knights or by a giant snow-white direwolf. Podrick isn’t good enough with a sword. Arya needs to heal from her injuries. And everybody knows the Kingslayer. Everybody knows the Hound too, but that didn't stop him from offering. But he’d barely finished his sentence about protecting lady Stark before Jon had shielded her with his body and practically growled out that he would be the one protecting her. This time no one protested. This time no one said the King in the North needs to stay in the North. Instead Jon and Sansa made their plans, and the morning after Bran told them about the men Cersei had hired, they were off.

They considered going beyond the Wall at first, but while spring is already knocking on North’s door, the lands beyond the Wall are still cold and barren. The animals once thriving there are now few and scattered across the vast distances and once they run out of provisions... Well, what’s the use of fleeing if they still die from starvation or exposure?

Jon’s already snoring softly, but Sansa’s thoughts keep her up for a good while. Long enough for her to hear owls hooting and deer browsing and foxes skittering past--and wondering whether she hears something else entirely.

That’s fear speaking, though, not reason--and she’s with Jon. Sansa snuggles as close as she dares, so close she can breathe in his familiar scent, but not so close they touch. She’s safe with Jon. They might be cousins now, and he might be annoyed with her today, but he still loves her all the same.

Doesn’t he?

In her dreams she chases the answer to that question without success, and when he wakes her the next morning, it feels as if she’s barely slept at all. In fact, it feels as if she rode the whole night through as well and, like he predicted, her body aches even worse than when she dismounted. While breaking her fast, she eyes the saddle grumpily and doesn’t notice the root Jon’s offering her until it’s under her nose. It's a gnarly thing, its long umber body brushed clean from dirt, pale haulm sticking out at the top.

“I found this in the saddlebags. I think Sam packed it.”

“What is it?”

“Chew on it. It’ll ease the pain.”

And it does, a little. Getting back in the saddle is absolutely terrible, but she keeps that root in her mouth and chews and chews its bittersweet taste and hates the dumb silence. Jon’s still pretending to focus on his surroundings when she knows he’s only brooding. The moment Arya is well enough, she and the others will travel to King’s Landing and kill Cersei. Varys knows all the tunnels there, knows how to get them in without having to raise a whole army and march them south. Jon would rather be with them, Sansa thinks, than traveling down forgotten roads with his sister or cousin or whatever she is now.

She tucks the root into her belt and urges her horse to sidle up next to Jon’s. He shoots her a look and jolts this time too, gaze wandering over the black of her hair before finding her eyes.

“Jon,” she says, softly. “I know this is serious. I know it’s not playing. But the truth is horrible and frightening. And we don’t know for how long we’ll have to stay away. It could be months. And we’ll have to seek shelter at an inn eventually, and people will strike up conversation. If we want to blend in,” she says, gesturing at the simple olive green wool dress and thick charcoal gray cloak she’s borrowed from one of the taller maids at Winterfell, “we have to commit to it.”

He holds her gaze for a moment so long a strange feeling stirs in her stomach and she has to fight the impulse to look away.

"As brother and sister?"

"As brother and sister," she says and his eyes fall to read her lips.

“All right." He tears his eyes off her mouth and looks back at the road before them. "I’ll play.”


	2. Jon

“A funeral. We’re headed to a funeral.”

Sansa looks at him as if he suggested they leave the horses behind and somersault through the North while shouting their names for all to hear.

Jon gives a shrug. “It might end the conversation, if we’re lucky.”

“Or they’ll point out our loved one will have decomposed by the time we arrive.”

A smile pulls at his lips. “All right. It was an uncle. Dead and buried now, but he left us his farm and we’re off to work the land.”

“Do we know anything about working the land?”

“We’ll learn. We’re good at learning.”

“Because we’ve had to do it ever since we were little, when our mother and father died and we had no one to look after us. I’ve worked as a scullery maid and a--”

“Handmaiden. You’ve worked as a handmaiden.”

“Why?”

“Your skin’s too soft. A scullery maid has the skin the prove it.”

“My skin’s too soft?”

Jon’s mouth drops open. She’s peering at him, a smirk quirking her mouth, and he prays that his blood will remain cool instead of running hot like it so often does around her. She can make him blush like a green boy with a single look or a kind word or a light touch with those soft hands. Once, during a meeting, when he sat at his desk and she stood beside him, she held his shoulder for support as she leaned over the map to gesture at something or other. The rosewater scent of her hair wafted over his face, her breast brushed his cheek ever-so-briefly, and his hand moved quite on its own to hold her waist. But when his fingers felt the leather of her belt, sense returned to him and he dropped his hand to his lap and went very very still and very very warm.

He still doesn’t know at what she gestured. All he remembers of the rest of that meeting is Davos staring at his red face.

“Yeah, it’s uh…” Jon rubs his forehead. “You’re a lady. Ladies have soft skin. Everyone knows that. And you know what a handmaiden does while you’ve barely stepped foot in a kitchen.”

“I’m in the kitchens all the time!”

“Aye, Lady Stark’s in the kitchens all the time, scrubbing pans and chopping vegetables and plucking chickens and scaling fish.”

“Stop looking so smug. It’s not as if you can do those things.”

“I was a steward at Castle Black.” He tilts his chin up, looking out over the snowy fields. “I cooked; I cleaned. I even had to milk the cows once or twice.”

“You’ve never told me that.”

“A man’s got to have a secret or two.”

Sansa smiles. “Milking cows? That’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

“Of course not.”

“So you _have_ a deep, dark secret?”

He draws in a slow breath to buy himself time, but then wisps of smoke somewhere far behind Sansa steal his attention. Following small roads or trails through fields and forests, they’ve kept off the Kingsroad for it’s not only the Golden Company he fears. People here might recognize them and, once Cersei’s men come looking, offer up the information for gold or to save their own lives. And those who don’t recognize the King in the North and Lady Stark might want the gold in their purses, the food in their saddlebags, the steel at Jon’s hip, and the horses they ride.

They might want Sansa.

Urging his horse to pick up the speed, Jon turns onto a more narrow path leading into a sparse stretch of wood to put more distance between them and the campfire.

 

* * *

 

At noon they stop by a brook where lumps of ice cling to the mossy rocks scattered along the stream, determined not to be flushed away by the brisk water. Dismounting, Sansa gasps with pain, but when he rushes forward to offer his arm she declines. Mad at him, he imagines, because they’ve ridden in silence again and he knows it looks as if he fled her question--and perhaps he did--but she can accept his help _and_ still be as mad as she likes.

He holds out his arm again. “You’re in pain.”

Sansa shoots him a glare but lets him led her to a stump where she stretches out her aching legs with a long moan, and the sight stirs old memories his mouth decides to share before his brain can stop it.

“After Ygritte and I climbed the Wall, once we were down on the ground again, we ma--”

He sucks in a breath and closes his stupid mouth around the rest of that sentence, forces it back inside before he offers to massage Sansa’s aching thighs the way he and Ygritte massaged one another once they’d made camp for the night. Before he tells Sansa how good it felt. Before he remembers what those massages led to and starts blushing like a bleeding idiot.

“We slept really well,” he mumbles before fleeing in between the trees under the pretense of having to relieve himself.

He returns to her already eating, his portion laid out on a piece of cloth draped over a rock, and he shakes his head at her to show his disapproval.

“You could’ve waited for me,” he says, grabbing the food and settling down on the rock. “I would’ve served you.”

“I can do it myself.”

“I know you can, but you don’t _have_ to.”

“You’re not my servant, Jon.”

“As long as you’re in pain, I am.”

She looks down at the food at her lap, a curtain of black hair tumbling over her shoulder. After carefully wiping crumbs off her fingers, she tucks the hair behind her ear and continues eating. It’s still jarring, seeing her like this. Alayne Stone… That’s what they called her in the Vale, when she pretended to be Littlefinger’s niece--or was it daughter? Although she’s told Jon more than he cares to know about Ramsay, and plenty about life at King’s Landing, she’s told him little about her time as Alayne. But when he asks Sansa about what story she invented for the bastard girl, Sansa only shakes her head coyly.

“I have my secrets too.”

She shakes the crumbs off her skirts, smooths out the wrinkles over her thighs, and he wonders whether it gives her any relief. As a lady, she’d never start massaging the stiffness from her legs in front of others--not even her brother--but if he were to turn around…

“What?”

Jon lifts his gaze off her lap. “Huh?”

Sansa’s eyes flit between his. “What are you thinking about?”

“Uh… Suppose you can’t be Alayne again.”

“No more than you can be Aegon--or I suppose you can. Cersei doesn’t know the truth. Do you want to be Aegon?”

“Aye, a lowborn boy named Aegon traveling with, who, his sister Rhaenys? That won’t attract attention.”

He huffs out a smile that dies the instant he sees the amused arch of her brow and realizes the implications of what he just said. A blush is already creeping up his cheeks, and he pretends she didn’t fasten the saddlebags properly and rises to remedy it before she jokes about her being both his sister and his wife.

“You could be Jeyne,” he says, fiddling with the straps. “It’s common enough.”

“Jeyne was my best friend.”

“Alys, then. Common too.”

“And you could be Ben or Alyn or Dick or--”

“ _Dick_? You're not calling me  _dick_ every day.” He slumps back down on the rock and props ham and bread into his mouth, talking with his mouth full. “I’ll be Will. Will and Alys.”

He shoves more food into his mouth, drinks from the waterskin, and stares at the brook, the sky, the wood instead of meeting her gaze even though he feels it on him. He can’t slip back into easy banter. Not when their every conversation seems to lead to a topic that leaves him blushing or revealing something stupid. This is exactly why he’s been avoiding her. He can’t pretend to feel nothing. Davos has told him as much, how transparent he is with his longing stares and deep sighs. And he can’t pretend to be her husband, even though he knows it would make it easier to protect her, because he can’t pretend to _pretend_ to love her when he’s ached to show her how he feels for so long she’d be appalled if she knew.

_As if she wouldn’t be appalled either way._

 Jon heaves a sigh and kneels by the brook, splashing ice cold water on his face before filling up the waterskin.

After commenting on it getting colder and getting only a hum as a response, Sansa accepts his silence, accepts his help too when it’s time to move. He consults his map for a new path that will lead them to an open field where they should be able to ride for a good while without stumbling upon any roads or settlements, and then swings himself up in the saddle and steers the horse west, the hooves of Sansa’s horse thudding behind him in an easy trot.

 

* * *

 

He’s made them a bed of spruce branches and blankets, and wrapped them in sleeping skins, a handbreadth of space between them. Above he can just barely glimpse the stars twinkling between the snow-heavy branches and he tries to think about Ygritte, about lying with her like this and talking about the stars--and forget about the warm woman by his side. All day, she’s called him Will and insisted on him calling her Alys and he can’t tell whether it makes it easier or harder to think of her as a sister.

With that dark hair, a new name… She’s almost a stranger. A beautiful stranger who’s made him laugh all day with the silly stories she’s crafted for them while he’s been able to drink his fill of her beauty, because she’s been too distracted to notice. She loves it, he knows, inventing stories and playing games--although she never does it anymore. At home she must be the stoic Lady Stark, a woman of winter, but out here where their only company are horses and snow and bullfinches flitting from tree to tree, that woman of winter thaws to reveal a hint of the girl she once was.

She’s already created Alys’ childhood friends, her favorite dishes, favorite colors, and favorite songs. Songs Alys heard in the inn where Will cooked before they left their village. Once her lady slept, Alys would often sneak away from the castle to sit in a corner in the kitchen and watch her brother work while listening to the local singers or, if she was very lucky, a traveling bard. That’s the little piece of Alys that’s still Sansa, she says, a love for song and stories. Earlier, she asked him what little piece of Will was still Jon, but the only answer he can give is his deep, dark secret and that is better left unsaid.

“Will?” she murmurs, moonlight and shadows playing over the angles of her face. “What animals do we have on our farm?”

“Hm… Pigs. A few cows. And horses, of course. And hens. Lots and lots of hens.”

“I want a kitten.”

“You can have a whole litter, if you want.”

“Does Will spoil his sister--or is that you?”

“All right. You can have _one_ kitten--if you do your chores well.”

“And how am I to do that when I can’t even pluck a chicken?”

“I’ll teach you.”

She hides a yawn behind her hand. “You should get yourself a wife to pluck your chickens.”

“Aye, I should. A sturdy wife with childbearing hips who can cook and clean and wrangle pigs and isn’t afraid of the hens pecking her hands when she grabs their eggs.”

“I’m not afraid of hens!” Sansa scowls at him but Jon only laughs. “Jon?" she says, voice all too sweet. "You're good at this game.”

“No."

“You are. You’re having fun as well.”

“I’m not having fun," he says but his cheeks are still rounded with happiness.

“You’re having so much fun, Jon.”

He forces the smile off his face. “I’m not.”

“You literally just laughed. And not for the first time today.”

“You’ve kept count?”

“If you traveled with someone who laughs twice a year and he suddenly laughs five times in one single day, wouldn’t you keep count?”

“All right.” He gives her a warm smile. “I’m having a _little_ bit fun.”

“See? Traveling with me isn’t so bad, is it?”

Even in the dark of night can he see the sparkle in her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth, and for a breath or two he forgets himself and _gazes_ until Sansa’s smile starts slipping.

Jon clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling of spruce and snow and sky. “And you. You need to marry as well. I’ll find you a nice merchant’s son with coin in his purse who’d like a pretty girl on his arm. You’ll have servants and won’t have to pluck those chickens after all.”

“I’m already in love. I can’t marry a merchant’s son if I’m in love.”

Jon forces his voice to flow as easily as the breeze pushing the clouds over the moonlit sky. “You are? With whom?”

“The lord of the castle’s oldest son. That’s why we’re truly leaving. You could’ve let me stay to brush the lady’s hair and empty her chamber pot, because it would’ve been a better life for me. But I fell for… Lord Symon and he fell for me. Promised me a place by his side as his wife, but you’re not as naive as I am, and you decided I should come with you to the farm before Symon left me with child.”

Amused by her scandalous story, Jon looks at her with wide eyes, mouth curled in a smile, and Sansa grins back at him.

“It’ll be Alys’ deep, dark secret. It’ll make her sad and mysterious--and it explains why you’re so over-protective.”

“Will’s over-protective?”

“No. _You_ are. Perhaps that's the little part of him that's still you.”

“So this Symon… What’s he like?”

“Very handsome, of course. And tall. With golden-blond hair and blue eyes and a kind smile.”

Up above, a bird flaps its wings and snow powders down on them from the rustled branch. Jon wipes his face with his sleeve. “Well, you always did love them tall, golden-haired, and blue-eyed.”

“No I didn’t. Joffrey was”--she yawns again--”an exception. Besides, this is what Alys wants, not me.”

“Just like Alys loves songs but not you?”

“Just like Alys prefers kittens over puppies. I’m Alys as much as you are Will. Unless you want a sturdy farm-wife who can pluck chickens? Is _that_ the little piece of him that’s still you?”

"Perhaps."

Sansa stretches with a groan, blinking sleepily. “Once we get back we'll find you a sturdy wife. The North needs a queen, and you need heirs.” She snuggles deeper under the sleeping skins and when she speaks again, her voice is a soft mumble, “You like them tough and strong, don’t you? Like Ygritte. A spearwife--is that what you want?”

“That’s not why I loved her.”

“Then why did you?”

_She got under my skin. She spoke her mind. She let me know when I was an idiot. She loved songs and stories and when she sang, it stirred things deep within. And she made me laugh. That’s what I want, what I’ve always wanted._

“I don’t know. I just did.” He feigns a yawn. “We should sleep.”

“I’m cold,” she whispers. “Can we lie a little bit closer? Just a bit.”

A wood has never been more quiet, so quiet there’s nothing there to drown out the hammering of his heart. Davos warned him about this, took him aside the moment Jon and Sansa had made their plans and told him to keep his thoughts pure and his hands to himself.

“You’re my king, not my son,” Davos said, “and she’s my lady, not my daughter. But I love you both as if you were my own. And I won’t have you pressure her into anything. You’re her big brother, you’re supposed to protect her--even from yourself.”

“I’m her cousin,” Jon blurted out and quickly ducked his head to avoid Davos stern look. “I won’t do anything.”

“You better not. For a long while, you’ll have none but each other, sleeping under the open sky, seeking warmth from each other. If she gets confused, if she feels obligated because you’re protecting her, if you _let_ her… That’s on you. Not her. And she’s not returning to Winterfell with a bastard in her belly and regret in her heart.”

But Jon already knows the dangers of traveling together, of sharing sleeping skins and getting used to the feel of a warm embrace and another person’s scent in your nose. How easily desire stirs then. How easily honor is forgotten. How easy it is to give in.

They’re not siblings by blood, but he can’t afford thinking of her as anything but a sister. A sister he’s sworn to protect.

He shifts over on his side, his offending parts facing away from her. “You can lie closer if you want.”

The needles crackle as she nudges closer, her knees nestled behind his, her arms tucked behind his back, her breath hot against his neck. Hot and heavy and slow as she drifts off to sleep, while he blinks out into the dark and wonders whether he’ll get any sleep at all. What if he turns in the night? What if she feels his--

Sansa gives a small sigh and snakes her arm around him, snuggling closer still. No. Not Sansa. Alys. She is Alys and he is Will and Will doesn’t care about his sister’s arm around his waist. Not one bit. That can't be the little part of him that’s still Jon.

Will closes his eyes and waits for sleep.


	3. Sansa

As the days pass, cold seeps back into the North. The brilliant blue sky pales to the color of milk, snow builds a crust that crunches beneath the horses’ hooves, and the icicles stop dripping and hang like fangs from branches and rocks. A storm is brewing. The last one before spring finally wakes from its slumber.

Alys groans when she swings herself off the horse, but her body is getting used to the exercise and nowadays she’s more stiff than sore. Jon would’ve helped Sansa regardless, but Alys was never beaten by the Kingsguard or tortured by Ramsay and so her discomfort doesn’t bother Will the way it would’ve bothered Jon. He only looks at her with an, “All right?” and when she nods, he returns his attention to the horses.

She waddles to an oak whose sturdy roots provide her with a seat only slightly less comfortable than the saddle and sinks down. Jon would’ve handed her food, but Will stays at the saddlebags and tosses her a bit of cheese and a sausage she nibbles on while he builds their bed. At night, though, he’s sweet and attentive and lets her cuddle close to his back, because while Winterfell was always warm with its roaring fires and the water from the hot springs running through its walls, Alys and Will’s old hut was so shoddy she had to curl up at night with her brother to stave off the winter cold.

She arranges the hood to better shields her cheeks from the wind’s careless nips while Will breaks off another branch for the bed. She doesn’t mind calling him that, didn’t mind his calling her Alys, but the last day or so… That name in his voice, from his lips, has grated at her, and she’s longed for the moments when Will fades and Jon and his dumb brooding silence returns. She's longed for the moments when he calls her Sansa.

Playing isn’t as fun in such heavy doses, it seems.

The following night, when they stop to make camp, Jon even finds wood for a fire and talks about hunting so they can go to sleep with hot food in their bellies. He talks about brewing tea and she closes her eyes and imagines sipping on something warm. They’ve avoided a campfire so far, but even huddled close in their cloaks and under the sleeping skins, with a bed of spruce needles between them and the frozen ground, they’ll be cold.

But as Jon drops to his haunches to light to fire, a raven swoops into the wood and lands on his shoulder. He removes the little scroll attached to its leg, unfurls it, and reads quietly. Then he strokes one gloved finger down the raven’s head, thanks their brother, and Bran flaps the raven’s wings and takes to the skies.

“The storm is almost here,” Jon says. “Bran told us to go back to the Kingsroad and find an inn.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Water Hammer lies a bit off the Kingsroad, at the outskirts of a fairly good-sized village, its braziers guiding them through the thick flurry of snow. When Will pulls at the door, the harsh wind grabs it and flings it open and they tumble into the warmth, clothes soaked with snow and skin raw from the biting wind. A man shouts at them to close the bloody door! And as if the wind heard him, it slams it back shut. Patrons fill the the inn from floor to ceiling, and as she and Will walk down the aisle to the table in the back where there’s still room for two, Alys feels a hundred eyes on her.

No. Sansa does--and Will melts off Jon instantly. He wraps his hand around hers and tugs her close as they walk. Cersei’s men can’t be in here, can they? Sansa passes men in brown and black and gray. Some in tattered cloaks, with unkempt beards and missing teeth. Others in boiled leather with muddy but whole boots and clean faces. The odd merchant with finer clothes. A ragtag group of boys from ages ten to sixteen sharing a pitcher of ale and a grilled chicken. An older woman surrounded by guards, her clothes sewn from fine wool and the chestnut-brown braid on her shoulder thick and glossy.

Bran said nothing about Cersei putting a price on Sansa’s head, but perhaps she has. He still can’t see everything. Sometimes it’s all crystal clear, but often it all bleeds together, and Sansa remembers the stories Littlefinger told her about the hunt for Tyrion and how dwarfs all over Westeros got their heads cut off in hopes of getting a reward from the queen.

They settle down at the table, Sansa tucked into the corner so that Jon shields her, and she huddles closer to him, seeking both warmth and protection.

“Relax,” he says, trying to catch the eye of a serving boy moving between the tables with a tray of dirty dishes. “The more uncomfortable you seem, the more attention you’ll attract.”

“I already attract attention.” She scans the room and finds too many men examining her over the brims of their tankards and soup bowls. “Everyone’s staring at me. Do you think they know?”

“You’re probably the most beautiful woman they’ll ever see--even with that black hair--of course they’re staring.”

He says it so casually it sounds like boring old fact--as if he stated the table’s made of oak or hens lay eggs--and yet Sansa’s cheeks go oddly warm and she fidgets with a lock of that black hair.

“You don’t like it?”

Jon catches the serving boy’s gaze and waves at him to come over. “I prefer the red.”

“In general or on me?”

“Both,” he says and her cheeks go even warmer, but Jon’s not looking at her at all but at the boy. “Kidney pie and mulled wine, if you have it. Ale if you don’t. We’re not lucky enough to get a room too, are we?”

The boy shakes his head. “It’s full.”

“Nothing? Not even a corner somewhere?” Jon pulls his cloak aside discreetly to reveal his fat coin purse. “We don’t ask for much. Just warmth and a roof over our heads.”

“I’ll ask my papa."

As they wait for the boy to come back, a serving maid delivers their order and Sansa sips at her hot drink. She never did like wine, but mulled wine is different, all hot and spicy and sweetened with honey. It makes her think of Mother, who often drank it when the northern cold settled in her southern bones. And with her hands wrapped around the mug, with Jon warm by her side, fires and candles burning in the toasty room and the effects of hot wine spreading through her body, Sansa feels herself thawing. Soon her cup is empty and the serving maid pours her more and Sansa brings the cup to her lips and keeps it there, sipping and humming while Jon’s comments echo in her mind and mingle with the suspicions that have nagged at her the past few days. Suspicions that only grow when the din of the inn closes around her like a shield and she’s left to her thoughts and that mulled wine that doesn’t last nearly as long as she’d like.

Jon taps the rim of her cup. “Remember to eat as well, Alys. If you drink that much on an empty stomach--”

“She has red hair,” she hears herself say. “Alys. She has red hair.”

“No. Alys has black hair.”

“Not Alys Karstark.” She licks her lips and lowers her hands still holding the cup, turning to look at him as she speaks. “You said you like red hair. Ygritte had red hair. Alys has red hair…”

Jon’s head is tilted back and he watches her with narrowed eyes under a furrowed brow. Her heart picks up its pace and her mouth goes dry and she should leave it be, but just like when he returned from Dragonstone and she finally got him alone on his office after a whole afternoon of observing him and Daenerys, a need to find the truth spurs her on and makes her blunt.

“Do you love her? Did you give up the North for her?” she asked then, ready to lay down the evidence if he feigned ignorance: the way Daenerys touched his arm, whispered in his ear, gazed up at him with stars in her eyes as if they’d been intimate for a good while. But Jon’s initial confusion faded and he gave her a simple and earnest no and she released the breath she’d been holding ever since the question left her lips.

“Are you in love with Alys?” she asks now and holds her breath and waits for an answer, for that furrowed brow to smooth out. But Jon’s frown only deepens.

“Why…? What?”

“The hair. The sword. She knows how to use it. I've seen her fight. And you chose her name for me.”

“I chose that name for my _sister_. Because it's common."

“Or because she was on your mind and the name just… slipped out.” Sansa puts down the cup on the table clumsily, ceramic clinking against the metal of her plate, and even though some sense still lingering in her mind tells her their travels have let her imagination run wild, the wine tells her her instincts are right. The wine tells her to press on. “You've been brooding ever since we left, because you won't be able to see her for weeks--maybe months. And you didn't want to tell me what you want in a wife. Perhaps you think I didn't notice, but I did notice."

"I have no doubt you noticed."

"So you admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"That you avoided answering."

"Aye, I admit it."

"Then admit you love her as well."

Jon’s head tilts to the side now and he peers at her for so long her stomach feels strange, swimming with spicy wine. She still hasn’t eaten. The pie is hot and smells delicious after days of traveling, and her fingers close around the fork, but Jon has locked their gazes and she can’t break away and the fork remains where it is.

“Would that bother you? If I loved Alys Karstark.”

He waits for a reply, but she has no answer to that question. All she has is a burning need to know the truth that only grows now that Jon avoids giving it. All she has is that strange sensation in the pit in her stomach that only grows the longer Jon holds her gaze. His is so steady, so calm, while hers flit between his eyes until she manages to break away after all and cut herself a piece of the pie.

“You’re my brother,” she says and blows on her food. “I want you to be happy.”

“I’m not your brother,” he mutters so quietly it would’ve escaped her hadn’t she been so focused on his voice, and then the serving boy returns with the good news that the innkeeper has managed to prepare a room after all. 

Jon wolfs down the rest of his meal so they can leave the common room and get out of their wet clothes, but Sansa only picks at hers. Across the room, the lady meets her eyes briefly and gives a small smile, woman to woman in a room full of men. Her eyes are brown, her lips full, and her eyebrows thick. She looks nothing like Mother and at the same time, with that braid and the fine dark blue wool, she looks so much like Mother Sansa’s heart aches.

 

* * *

 

The room belongs to the innkeeper and his wife, who’ll happily share a room with their children for a few days so long as Jon lightens his purse. It has a bed, two chairs, a wash-basin, and a nightstand and dresser with their surfaces emptied of personal items and wiped clean. A fire is crackling in the hearth and while Jon sees to the payment, Sansa places the chairs in front of the fire and drapes her damp clothes over one of them to dry. She’d love a bath, but doesn’t want to bother the innkeeper with another difficult request and merely washes herself at the basin until her skin is pink and smells of white soap instead of sweat and dirt.

Once Jon returns to the room, she’s already under the covers. He removes his cloak with a sigh, drapes it over the other chair and starts unlacing his doublet, and Sansa turns her eyes to the ceiling and feels the room spin, just a little. The taste of mulled wine lingers on her tongue and when she closes her eyes she sees Mother sitting by the heart with knitting in her lap and a steaming cup of wine on the table next to her. Sansa would sit at her feet with her own little project--a scarf or a hat--and a steaming cup of tea brewed with cloves and cinnamon and ginger. Just so it would smell like the mulled wine she was yet allowed to drink.

The bed creaks under Jon's weight. He settles in with a satisfied grunt and she instantly snuggles closer to mold her body around his the way Alys does every night after Will has joined her in bed.

But Jon stiffens under her touch. “If you’re cold I can put another log on the fire.

His rejection thrusts her back into the winter storm they fled and she moves over to her side of the bed with a breathy shiver. “Yes. Thank you.”

When he leaves the bed, she closes her eyes and counts her breaths to keep her thoughts from racing. One two three four five six seven-- Then the bed creaks again and they lie there under the blankets, in the light of the hearth, with the awful silence hanging thick and heavy in the chasm between them. _This_ is why she wants him to tell her about Alys. How can they ever find their way back to who they were before Bran told them the truth _unless_ Jon lets her in and starts talking to her again?

“Will?” she whispers. “What were the names of our parents?"

“I don’t want to play right now, Sansa. Just go to sleep.”

But how can she sleep like this?

How can Alys sleep without her brother in her arms when she’s grown used to the scent of his hair in her nose and his back moving against her chest as he breathes?

How can Sansa share a bed with her cousin when he’s in nothing but his smallclothes and she’s in nothing but her shift without her stomach knotting from the indecency of it all? If Mother knew that she shared a bed with a man who wasn’t her husband or even her brother…

Because he’s not, is he? He said so himself. He’s not her brother and now she can’t help but wonder whether he even wants to be.

Sansa doesn’t mean to ask, but the mulled wine and the dark room play tricks on her, fool her into thinking they’re in a safe little cocoon where anything spoken will hide away once morning comes and spare her of the consequences and the shame and the tension.

“Do you still love me?” Her voice floats to the ceiling, frail and light like cobwebs. “Even though I’m not your sister anymore.”

_Did you ever love me?_

Jon’s silence stretches on and on, and it takes all her willpower to lie still and quiet and wait for his reply. 

“When Bran told me,” he says, finally, “it changed nothing for me. At least not how I feel. About Bran or Arya. Or you.”

But something did change. Everything changed. But she tucks her hands close to her chest and curls up on her side and allows him that lie for now. The truth will come out sooner or later.


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i'm going back to naming the chapters after the pov character because fbnfnffbbbdbddbbd. Oh, and I should also make it clear, considering the stuff happening in this chapter, that there won't be any rape attempts or anything like that. Not in this chapter or in future chapters.

Jon sleeps as if on a bed of wildfire. When morning comes, he’s not moved a muscle while Sansa has moved to the middle of the bed, one of her knees nudging the back of his thigh. The storm still rages outside and he feeds the fire before dressing and heading downstairs. Despite the early hour, the common room already bustles with patrons chatting over their breakfast (or grumbling about the weather which has trapped them at the Water Hammer). The innkeeper stands by a table in the back and talks to a dark-haired lady with an eagerness that means her purse is fat and her nature generous. The serving maid scrubs a table, her breasts swaying along with her motions and mesmerizing several of the men in the room. Two of them have positioned themselves to be her audience. Jon sees little of them but the back of their heads--one balding ginger fellow and one with a head of thick hair the color of a mouse’s pelt--but he remembers them from last night, when they devoured Sansa with their eyes.

“How much for an hour or two with her, you reckon?” Ginger murmurs to his friend. “A few copper? A silver stag?”

“She’s the innkeeper’s wife, ain’t she? Reckon you’d need to offer a dragon or two, but I wouldn’t. The gods don’t look kindly on a man who touches another’s wife.”

“Bah. You and your bloody gods.” Ginger takes a gulp of ale. “How about that other one? Driving me mad, this. Sitting in here. Trapped. The black-haired beauty with the eyes. I need a woman.”

“Wasn’t that her husband, then?” Mouse Pelt says. “The short scowling one.”

“Her brother. I overheard them last night, didn’t I? And a brother…” Ginger sucks on his teeth. “Well, a brother might want to get rid of a sister for a bit if it means a fatter purse. Looked sick of her last night and all. Might want to get rid of her for even longer.”

“Just cos you sold your sister--”

“I did, yeah, and made two bleeding dragons. Fed me for ages, that did.”

Jon clenches his sword hand, but then the serving maid switches tables and her audience shifts in their seat, and Jon slinks away.

 

* * *

 

When he returns to their room with a dice pouch, a deck of cards, and a tray of breakfast foods--oatmeal with raisins; boiled eggs; bark bread; two cups of tea--she’s still sleeping. Her hair has fanned out over the pillow like a raven wing, her parted lips emit light snores, and her hand rests on the spot where he lay only moments ago. Jon places the tray on the empty nightstand and eases out a deep sigh. It means nothing. She’s not missing him in her sleep. Their being cousins means nothing. “ _Do you still love me as a brother loves a sister?_ ” That’s what she meant last night and a resounding yes was the answer she craved (when he barely remembers the last time he did).

The scrape of the chair against the floorboards when he places it by the nightstand pulls Sansa from sleep. Stretching out her body, she flutters her eyes open and they fall on the tray and she licks her lips as she props herself up on one forearm.

“Breakfast in bed?”

“Yeah, I thought…”

He gives a shrug she meets with a beaming smile that makes his stomach flutter. Then she scoots over to his side of the bed, and he averts his eyes and starts breaking his fast instead of staring at her breasts moving beneath the shift. It’s not fine food by any means, but after days of increasingly stale bread and meat that started to go hard from the cold, every bite is delicious.

“How’s your head?” He taps an egg against the nightstand and picks at the cracked shell. “I don’t think we have any of that root left.”

“I didn’t drink _that_ much. My head is fine.”

“Fine enough for a game of dice?”

“I don’t know how to play.”

“I’ll teach you. If you want?”

“You don’t want us to leave the room, do you?”

“No, can’t say I do. It’s better this way. Safer. So, what do you say?”

When Sansa nods, Jon clears the nightstand and puts the tray of scraped-clean plates outside their door. Then he turns around. She still sits in bed, wearing nothing but her shift, with the light of the hearth playing over her bare arms and eliciting a hint of copper from her dark locks. The blankets are draped around her body like soft woolen waves and he gets the strangest (most wonderful) image in his head, of her sitting just like that in a bed that is theirs, her hair red and tousled from sleep (and his hands), and her eyes giving him promises he knows she’s eager to keep.

Jon shakes his head to clear it from that alluring and utterly unhelpful vision. He should ask her to get dressed. Would a brother ask her to get dressed? Would he ask Arya to get dressed? Would Will ask Alys? No. He wouldn’t care. Jon clears his throat and settles down on the chair.

“What are we playing for?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t know.”

Humming, she picks up a die and squints at it. “You have a kingdom. Do you want to play for your kingdom?”

“What do you have to offer then. If you lose. Winterfell?”

Sansa gasps and cups her hands over the dice to hide them. “You want my Winterfell!”

 _We could share,_ he thinks, mesmerized by her scandalized expression and the sparkle in her eyes that tell him she’s teasing. _We could share my kingdom and your castle and our lives. We could share if we…_

“Just admit it! You want my castle, Jon.”

“You wanted my kingdom.”

The sparkle in her eyes fades. “I was joking. I don’t want to be queen.”

“You did. Once.”

She shakes her head and her mask slots into place. At home she uses it often. Often enough that few know a gentle, vulnerable woman hides beneath it. But Jon knows, and Jon looks at the blankets to let her speak without feeling exposed.

“I wanted to marry a handsome prince and give him children. I wanted puppies to cuddle with in a garden full of roses. I wanted a troubadour to play my favorite songs while I sat in the sun and sewed something pretty for my daughters. I wanted a perfect life and I thought marrying a prince would give me a perfect life because I was a stupid little girl who didn’t know princes can be monsters. I know better now. It’s not what I want anymore.”

“None of it?” He lifts his head and looks at her for an answer that never comes. “Then what do you want?”

With a soft smile on her lips, Sansa turns his right hand palm up and drops the dice in its cradle. “I want you to teach me how to play.”

 

* * *

 

Tongue touching the corner of her mouth, Sansa surveys the cards offered to her and the cards in her hands. An hour in, even though they used the coin in his purse to gamble with, she grew tired of dice and his arse grew tired of the wooden seat, and so he’s spent the rest of the morning teaching her all his favorite card games while lounging on the footside of the bed.

She exchanges two cards and then she lays down all six of her cards. First the wolf card, then in a circle around it: a pile of stones; a heart-tree; a lump of iron; a flock of lambs; a nugget of gold; and the card painted white for snow. They mean such different things, those cards, depending on the game and which cards you combine them with, and it makes the games tricky and unpredictable and difficult to learn. The lamb card can mean wool or a farm, of course, but also family or a following. The card painted to look like wood grain can mean a cottage or a forest or even a ship if one lays it next to the water card. And the winter rose, the last card she places in the circle, can mean a garden or a maid or love or a queen.

“That’s a castle, isn’t it? That’s a King in the Castle.”

Jon nods slowly as his eyes wander over the cards, then he looks up at her with a smile. “Aye, that’s a King in the Castle. How long have you been sitting on that flower?”

“I won?” Sansa’s mouth drops open in delight. “I won!”

The pot lies between them, and she cups her hands behind the pile of coins and drags it over to her side with such glee he can’t help but laugh. They’ve been at it for hours with her only winning once or twice while his coin pile has grown and grown and grown until she had to add the promise of doing his paperwork for him for a week to keep playing. And now he sits back with a silly grin on his face as she grabs a fistful of coins and watches them drip from her fingers and back onto the pile with satisfying clinks.

“What are you going to do with all your winnings?”

“I’m going to buy a puppy. No. Four puppies. One for each of us.” She divides the coin into two piles and gives one to him. “Let’s play one more time. I aim to win again.”

“As my lady commands. But first we need to eat.”

When he returns with plates of fish, boiled turnips and potatoes, and an oatcake each, the deck lies neatly stacked on the nightstand and she’s spread out her cloak to protect the bed from crumbs. Not once has she asked to leave the room, except for using the privy down the hallway--something that thankfully, _finally_ , made her dress--but now she chews her food thoughtfully, a crease between her eyebrows, and he knows she’ll ask him whether something happened this morning. He can’t tell her about the men. About the things they said. He must spare her for as long as he can.

Sansa’s eyes glide to the deck of cards before returning to her plate. “What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“You’re a king without a castle. You need a castle. And…” She meets his eye, then, still with that concerned expression. “For hundreds and hundreds of years, Winterfell was the king’s seat. For long enough it spawned a card game people still play three hundred years after Aegon’s conquest.”

“I’m not taking Winterfell from you, Sansa. It’s yours.”

“Then where will you go?”

“You want to get rid of me?” he asks, one corner of his mouth quirked up wryly.

“The wars put everything on hold, but you’ll have to marry eventually. You’ll have to get an heir eventually. You need a castle. You need a seat.”

Jon sighs and rubs at the scar above his eye. “There’s no point discussing this now. We’ll talk about it when we go home.”

He feels Sansa’s eyes on him, but he stares stubbornly at a lute-shaped stain on the wall. She’s not the first to point it out. Tyrion nosed around before the war, made it clear to Jon in private that he saw right through him, but then the war came and Tyrion died, and Jon tucked that problem to the back of his mind so he could enjoy his whole family staying together for as long as possible. Isn’t that what she wants as well? For them all to stay together?

Questions he doesn’t have the courage to utter plague him for the rest of the day and his reticence wears her down. On the second day cooped up in the room, Sansa becomes snarky and testy. When they try playing games, she’s either a sore loser who demands another try or a winner who takes no time rejoicing in her victory before she shuffles the deck and hands out new cards. She picks at her food, stares out the small window at the storm so thick they see nothing but white, and goes to bed right after supper, still in her dress. On their third day, she’s quiet and pale. She’s barely touched her breakfast, barely responded to any of his attempts at conversation, and now they’re moving toward noon and she just sits on the bed with her knees pulled up to her chest, head resting on her arms folded over her knees, and stares into nothing.

He says her name and gets no reaction, says it again and touches her shoulder gently--and yet she recoils and curls in on herself further, drawing in a shaky little breath.

“Sansa, what’s wrong.” He crouches down by the bed to make himself small. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t do it,” she whispers into her sleeve. “I can’t. I need to get out. Jon, please.” She looks at him with wet eyes. “He locked me up. For days at a time where the only living people I saw were him or Myranda and they would-- I can’t take it anymore. I feel like the walls are getting closer and closer. I can’t breathe. _Please_.”

Jon glances out the window. It’s been calmer today. Those who know how to read weather signs claim the storm is passing, and then he and Sansa will be on their way. Far away from Ginger and Mouse Pelt.

“All right,” Jon says and holds out his hand. “We’ll eat with the others today.”

 

* * *

 

The moment they enter the common room, Ginger looks up from his steaming bowl of stew and stares at Sansa with hungry eyes. Mouse Pelt looks too, a bit more discreetly, as he sips on his ale. 

They think Jon’s her brother. That a brother wouldn’t care. That a brother values money over blood. A husband, though… Ginger licks his lips and wipes his mouth and when he notices Jon looking at him, splits his face into a gap-toothed grin. The kind of grin that tells Jon that, if he were to return it, Ginger would sidle up to them and whisper his offer in Jon’s ear.

With a withering look at the man, Jon grabs Sansa’s hand and pulls her with him to an empty table, where they sit down closely together.

“You were right,” Jon murmurs. “I can protect you better as a husband.”

“Did they do something? That pair who keeps staring.”

“Aye. They said something I didn’t like because they think you're my sister. But they respect a wedding bond.”

Sansa moves her head back to look at him. “So we’re married, then?”

“Aye, I think that’s for the best. I need to show them you’re _mine_.”

That last words comes out darker than he intended, something akin to a possessive growl, and Sansa shivers, her mouth dropping open, and fear flashes in her eyes and he thinks about Ramsay and Joffrey and Littlefinger and other men who’ve viewed her as a possession.

Jon leans in closer so he can soften his voice and still be heard. “Only with your permission, of course.”

She’s so close he can count the freckles on her nose, faint little specks of color the sun lured from her skin when they rode under its shine, and smell the clean scent of the soap with which she washed herself. Should he pull away? She’s not answering, but her eyes search his and he reads a question in them he doesn’t understand and so he stays where he is and waits. Her eyes drop to his mouth. Trembling breaths leave her. Then her eyes flicker up to his again and she nods and licks her lips, her tongue wetting first the top lip and then rolls over the bottom lip before her teeth graze it, and oh, _gods_ , she thinks he meant… Her eyes even flutter shut.

“Sansa, I’m not going to kiss you.”

Her eyes fly open, round and pale as the moon. For a beat she only stares at him--but then a smile twitches at her lips. Mirth glitters in her eyes and her body jolts with quiet laughs she struggles to hold back while her smile grows wider and wider until she’s shaking with giggles. Tears leak from her eyes, slide down her rounded cheeks, and even though he should be offended (and perhaps is, deep down), he can’t help but laugh along.

“I really thought--” She fans her eyes with one hand, clutches her stomach with the other. “I really thought you were… Oh, _gods_.”

She slumps toward him and rests her head on his shoulder, happy noises humming in the back of her throat, and he wonders whether he’s ever seen her laugh this way. He can’t have, because he would’ve remembered this sweet feeling of Sansa’s laughter in his ears and warmth blooming in his chest. Arm wrapped around her, he tucks her even closer, still with that wide smile on his face, and two tables over, he sees the fine lady watching them with a fondness that tells him it’s working. Husband and wife. In love.

He gestures at the serving maid to come and Sansa states, clearly enough for those close by to hear, that she and her husband would like more of that wonderful kidney pie and mulled wine.

The serving maid lets out a surprised noise. “Someone told me you were brother and sister, but that couldn’t be, I thought. You look nothing alike.”

“Brother and sister?” Sansa shares an incredulous look with Jon. “Whatever gave them that idea? No.” She nuzzles his cheek and he’s glad she can’t see the ridiculously pleased smile on his face. “Newly married and madly in love. Aren’t we, husband?”

“Aye,” Jon says and wonders whether Sansa can hear his heart racing through the linen, leather, and wool of his clothing. “Madly.”

 

* * *

 

As they eat and drink and chat, the color returns to her cheeks and the light returns to her eyes, and so when she asks to stay for a while longer, who is he to turn her down? They order in more ale and mulled wine and she asks him a thousand questions about life at the Wall and he should remove his arm, he really should, but it stays where it is, wrapped around her waist, fingers resting on her hip, and she doesn’t seem to mind at all. Once, she even touches his thigh briefly as she speaks--without noticing, by the looks of it, but he noticed. Oh, he noticed and--

 _“_ _You’re her big brother, you’re supposed to protect her--even from yourself.”_

Gods, he needs air. Jon pulls at his collar. He needs to make water too. He’s loathe to leave her, but she suggests he asks the lady with her handful of guards to keep an eye on his wife. That, as one of the only two women in the room except the serving maid, she’ll understand. And when Sansa is proven right, Jon heads toward the privy with Davos’ warnings ringing in his head. On his way back, however, different voices reach him. Familiar voices. A few feet in front of him, a door’s ajar and Jon sneaks closer to eavesdrop.

“Told you he was her husband,” Mouse Pelt says.

“But I heard her say that--”

“You heard wrong, didn't you? Not impossible, is it, when you never clean your bloody ears.”

“Leave my ears out of it. I still think we should take her. No silver needs to change hands. As soon as the storm eases, we grab her, break her in as we ride south and sell her to the Clam when we’re tired of her. They pay good.”

“The gods don’t--”

“The gods don’t give a shit. “

“He has a fighter’s look. A killer's. And that sword of his. It was a proper sword, it was.”

“What of it? There’s two of us. And if we kill him, we’re not touching another man’s wife, are we?” Ginger lets out a wheezy laugh. “She’ll be a widow!”

Jon clenches his hands into tight fists. Sword-fighting indoors is hardly practical, but he always carries a dagger and without even thinking, he storms into the room, punches Mouse Pelt in the nose hard enough that the man collapses with a whimper. Slams Ginger up against the wall, the dagger digging into the man’s soft belly, Jon's free hand holding the man's throat. He could kill him. Easily. Just add more pressure, twist the dagger, drag it across his abdomen and watch the guts spill out… and attract a lot of unwanted attention and most likely get himself and Sansa thrown out into the storm for killing paying guests.

“Pack your things and leave. _Now_. Because if you stay, I’ll drag you both outside, cut your bellies open, and leave you for the wolves.”

“But the storm--”

Jon shuts him up by pressing the dagger deep enough to wet the man’s tunic with blood. “Are you a man or a coward? What’s a bit of snow? Get out or I’ll kill you.”

Clutching his bleeding nose, Mouse Pelt stumbles to his feet and tugs at Ginger’s arm. “Come on. Not worth it. It’s never worth it. Storm’s easing anyway.”

Chest moving with harsh breaths, Jon steps away and glares at Ginger until he lets his friend pull him out into the hallway. With a loud exhale, Jon leans against the wall and waits for his racing pulse to slow before wiping the dagger on his trouser leg, sliding it back into the sheath, and making his way back.  


Sansa has moved their things to the lady’s table and he sits down by her side, keeping an eye on the door leading to the sleeping quarters. Vaguely, he registers her introducing him to lady Smokewood or Smallwood or Swyftwood or whatever it is, and he smiles politely and gives the name Will and resumes staring at the door. Soon Ginger and Mouse Pelt appear--the former shooting him a dirty look; the latter holding a washcloth against his nose--and exit through the front door. Jon sighs his relief.

“You were gone for a bit,” Sansa says quietly.

“Everything is fine.”

She nods, but her gaze lingers on him. Not out of worry, though. No, she sits there all still, taking in his eyes, his nose, his lips, every detail of his face, and Jon forgets how to breathe, forgets where he is and what he just did.

“What?” he whispers.

Sansa blinks and he thinks she might be blushing, that the smile which spreads on her face is bashful. Then she takes his hand and laces their fingers together. “Nothing. I missed you, that’s all.”

For a moment he believes it. For a stupid intoxicating moment he thinks she did miss him, that her smile was real, that her touch was real, and then he remembers. By some will of the gods, he finds a cocky smirk and a teasing tone and saves himself by becoming someone else.

“Maybe I should leave more often, then? If this is the welcome I get.”

She lets out a little laugh he’s never heard from Sansa’s lips and it both hurts and helps. She’s not Sansa; he’s not Jon. They’re new versions of Alys and Will. And this version of Will? The little part of him that’s still Jon? That part loves her more than anything, no matter what name she bears, and that makes this the most dangerous game he’s ever played.


	5. Sansa

“You know… Alys has a castle,” Sansa mumbles.

Mind fuddled from mulled wine and the cozy comfort of blankets and a toasty room, she’s not entirely certain why she points this out. No, she knows why--it’s a good solution--but not why she’s saying it _now_. It’s the wine, isn’t it? Her mouth is foolish when her brain swims in wine--and swim it does. Lady Shurwood is a sociable woman tired of speaking only to guards and insisted on spending a long evening with them, paying for food and drink (and their company).

At first it worried Sansa; they’d not played the game of Will and Alys, husband and wife, and decided how they met, how they fell in love, how they got married. But Lady Shurwood liked talking about herself, and Jon knew how to steer the conversation so that it constantly revolved around her, and they never ended up having to share more than their names or that they were traveling to the farm Will had inherited. Sansa should’ve known. He does it to her as well, doesn’t he?  Deflect and avoid. Why can’t he just tell her the truth? Why does he feel the need to hide things from her? She tells him everything. ( _Not everything.)_ Almost everything.

“You want Alys to be king?”

“No, stupid.” Sansa throws one hand out to swat at him but misses, because, as always, he’s lying with his back to her as far away as he possibly can without actually falling off the bed. “It would solve your problem. At first I thought that was why you were sad. A king shouldn’t marry an heir. But as a kingless castle…”

“A what?” he says, laughter in his voice. “I’m a what?”

“The woman you love is the heiress to a castle. Isn’t it perfect?”

“Aye. Perfect.”

“Meant to be…” Sansa sighs sleepily and inches closer to Jon, not close enough to cuddle--he wouldn’t like that--but close enough that she can ghost her fingers over his back as she murmurs, “Good night, husband.”

She can still feel his hand on her hip, warm and large and strong. She lays her own hand over the echo of his touch and keeps it there as she falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

Those who said the snowstorm was the last knell of winter knew their weather patterns well. Now the sun caresses the landscape with her gentle fingers, melts snow into water soaked up by the thirsty ground, and beckons the frost-nipped flowers and buds to stretch toward her rays. Beckons Sansa too, who closes her eyes and tilts her face up to enjoy the warmth of the sun, the sound of birds filling the rowans and alders to sing their welcome to spring, and even the scent of the clusters of purple and yellow crocus she imagines herself smelling even though all she can smell is horse and leather and old yellow grass.

Unlike Jon, whose horse seems an extension of him when he rides, Sansa was not made for horseback. And yet it’s good being back in the saddle, out in the open air, after days of being trapped at the Water Hammer. Trapped with him always so close, with nothing to rest her eyes on but him and his eyes and his lips and his hands.

“You’re a lucky woman,” lady Shurwood told her that day, when Jon went to the privy. “Few husbands can make their wives laugh so heartily. He’s handsome too…” Sansa must’ve looked surprised, for the lady peered at her with an amused smile. “You disagree?”

“No, my lady. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and when the beholder is in love...”

“The first time you saw him, you must’ve noticed, no? I certainly noticed the first time I was introduced to lord Shurwood. Although I grew to love him, I did find him rather plain at first. But your Will? He’s prettier than most ladies--and those _hands_ … Oh! Such large hands for such a short man.” Lady Shurwood’s smile was a wicked thing. “Mm, yes, you are a lucky woman.”

While Sansa can’t remember the first time she saw Jon, she remembers well the first time she saw him as a man grown as opposed to the sulking boy who never played with her. He _was_ handsome--beautiful, really--but Robb was very handsome as well, and Bran has become a handsome young man, and Sansa was beyond relieved to finally reunite with family, which made Jon that much more beautiful to her. She couldn’t take her eyes off him because he represented something she’d dreamed of for years, something others had dangled in front of her to make her dance--safety, protection, family, home--and if she blinked, that dream could be snatched away.

Sometimes it still feels that way, as if he’s too good to be true.

That’s why she enjoyed the feeling of his arm around her that night: it was protection, the protection of someone she trusts completely. That’s why it felt so comfortable, so right. It doesn’t mean she enjoyed his hand on her hip. It doesn’t mean she wants to _kiss_ him. She didn’t want it; she read him wrong, that’s all. How else was she to interpret his words? Possessive. _Mine_.

A shiver runs through her and she tugs her cloak more tightly around her. They’ve stopped to eat and, even though she sits on a moss-covered log, the ground still carries a chill that creeps up her stocking-covered legs to gather beneath her skirts. Then she feels a weight on her shoulders, Jon’s scent surrounding her, and she looks up to find him draping his cloak around her.

“You looked cold,” he says, sitting down next to her with a soft smile she can’t return.

“What did you mean? When you said you needed to be possessive. What does it entail?”

His smile slips and he looks out over the empty field before them. “I don’t know. Hold your hand. Things like that.”

“That’s specific.”

“Does it have to be specific?”

“It does. What are we like as a couple?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s… I’ve only ever had Ygritte and she was a wildling. It’s not the same.”

“But you’ve _seen_ married couples. Are we like Mother and Father or like... I don’t know. Robert and Cersei?”

“Robert and Cer-- Really? Robert and Cersei? I heard about the feast, the way he pawed at Heddla in front of his wife. I would _never_ treat you like that.”

“You’d wait until I left the room?” Sansa says, hoping to turn his frown into a smile, but Jon only stares at her as if she’d accused him of kicking the horses.

“I’d be faithful. Always.”

“I know _you_ would be, Jon, but this isn’t about you. It’s about Will.”

“He would be too! Or do you want me flirting with other women the next time we find ourselves at an inn?”

He stares at her as if he’s wanting an answer, and Sansa drops her gaze to her thumb massaging her palm. “So then we’re happy?”

“Of course we’re happy--or we could just as well pretend to be brother and sister.” Jon breathes out. “That’s settled, then.”

“It’s not.” She turns more fully toward him. “Listen. Happy couples are affectionate and that means we need to be specific. That means we need to talk about how comfortable we are with each other’s bodies or we’ll have another--”

“Bodies?” Jon shoots to his feet as though her body is so offensive to him he can’t stand sitting next to it let alone talking about it. “What do you mean _bodies_?”

“In what way are we affectionate? Mother and Father used to touch and kiss and--”

“ _Kiss_?” Jon exhales sharply. “What kind of scenario could _possibly_ make us feel the need to kiss?”

“I don’t know! It could happen!”

“Well then I’ll just have to stand it, won’t I?”

Sansa purses her lips. “Good. _Now_ it’s settled.”

“Aye, it’s settled.”

Jaw clenched, Jon scowls at her and she levels him with a solid scowl of her own that makes him shrink back, duck his head, and stomp off to the horses. His cloak is still on her shoulders and she hates the weight of it and how his scent envelopes her, and she shrugs it off and folds it into a neat bundle and lays it next to her on the log.

Then they eat, sitting on that dumb log with her on one end and and him on the other, both stewing in silence even though Sansa can’t quite say why they’re so angry. She just knows her blood is boiling and her heart is racing and her hands ache with the need to-to… To grab him and do... _something_. Sansa pulls off her gloves, tugs at her collar. This always happen when they fight, frustration simmering under her skin until she’s so hot she can’t stand it.

Soon they’ll mount the horses and ride in uncomfortable silence and she can’t stand that either. She must break it before it grows fangs and snaps at her for trying.

Jon bought the deck of cards and dice pouch from the innkeeper, and now she fetches them from the saddlebags and spreads out Jon’s cloak on the ground and tucks her legs underneath her as she sits. Jon’s sigh is deep and heavy, but he wipes the corners of his mouth with his thumb, and his hands on his breeches, and joins her. With agile fingers, he shuffles the deck and lays down a game of Wolves and Lambs, still without a word, and they play that way, cards moving between hands and cloak and deck in silence. They’re halfway through the game when they reach for the feather card at the same time and their fingers bump together.

Their eyes meet. She half expects him to scowl again, but Jon only looks at her like a boy prepared to receive a scolding for daring to touch a lady. So Sansa curls her fingers around his hand and gives it a squeeze, gives him a small smile too. Jon’s shoulders drop. He runs his thumb over her knuckles before withdrawing his hand and leaving the feather card to her.

“You were right,” he says as she picks it up. “We should talk about it. We should’ve talked about it before I…” He shakes his head at himself. “I’m sorry, Sansa. Tell me what you’re comfortable with.”

“I haven’t given it any thought. But, I suppose, hugs and holding hands. Some touching. Arms, back”--she ghosts her fingers over the parts of her body she names--“waist, hips. Pecks on the forehead, hands, temple, cheek.”

There she stops, fingers resting against her cheekbone, and Jon’s gaze moves from her hand back to her eyes. His gaze followed her every movement, swept over her body and face like a caress and now her skin tingles all hot against her cool fingers. He made it weird. He made it weird when that was _exactly_ what she was trying to prevent by talking it through before they ended up in another moment filled with tension because of miscommunication.

This is the sensible thing to do. She’s being sensible. There’s no need to blush.

Sansa breathes in deeply and defies that blush by lifting her chin. “That’s all fine, but no kissing. Not unless we have to.”

“Sansa. We’re not going to find ourselves in a situation where we have to kiss each other.”

“But if we do,” she says, cheeks going warmer still and stomach twisting in the strangest knot, but she has to talk about it so she knows what to expect if… _If_. “If we have to kiss, then no…” She swallows and thinks about the type of kisses she's heard about, kisses she's never experienced herself. “Just lips.”

“Aye. Just lips.”

“And we should think of a new story,” she says, voice growing stronger with each word because this is a game she’s good at, this is a game she can play. “The story of Will and Alys, husband and wife.”

“Can’t we use the same ones?”

“What?” she says with a laugh. “You grew up to fall in love with and marry your sister?”

“No! What-why-why would--” Jon throws his cards on the cloak and gets on his feet, backing away from her as words rush out of him. “Will and Alys met as children. Orphans, the both of them. Have looked after one another ever since, and once Lord Symon started his... _thing_ , Will realized he loved Alys and luckily she felt the same and they left for the farm. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant.”

“You think I’d choose you over a lord? That’s very confident.”

“I’m a king! And a secret prince. That’s better than a _lord_.”

“Not _you_. Will. If that’s the name you should use. Perhaps we should change them. Now that I’m your wife, Alys might make it harder--or does it make it easier?”

“Why do you keep… If you want to get rid of me, then just throw me out of Winterfell and be done with it!”

Sansa’s mouth drops open. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to get rid of you.”

“Then why do you keep talking about castles and Alys and-and marriage and sisters and wives? You keep bringing it up! Day after bloody day! Do you honestly think I love Alys? Do you?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa mumbles.

“Do you _want_ me to? Is that what this is? You want me to find a wife and you think a redhead is all I need. That you can exchange one for another. You think that’s how it works? That I just fall helplessly in love with any redheaded woman I lay my eyes on?”

Sansa averts her eyes, arms wrapped around her. “No of course not.”

“It takes more than that, Sansa. A lot more. So just-just _stop_ it!”

For a beat he just stands there and she feels him glaring at her, but she stares stubbornly at the abandoned game of cards spread on his cloak. Finally, he huffs out a breath and stalks away from their campsite, into the woods surrounding the field, woods that will grow dark soon for spring has yet to properly arrive and the sun still sets early in the day.

Sansa scrambles to her feet. “Jon! Wait! Jon!”

“Just leave me alone!”

“But--”

“No!” He whips around, chest heaving with breaths and shoulders rounded. “I want to be alone, Sansa. I spend every bleeding moment with you, awake or asleep. I can’t even take a piss without you. I _need_ to be alone.”

His words punch the air from her lungs and she sags back down on the log, his silhouette blurring in her tear-filled vision. She licks her lips, sniffles, brushes away a tear that’s trickled down her cheek. Something warm buffs at her back, nips softly at her shoulder, Sansa shifts around to lean her cheek against the horse’s warm coat. Its muzzle feels like velvet against her fingers and she pets it over and over for comfort. Oh, she’s being ridiculous. This is nothing to cry about. She doesn’t even know why she’s crying. So her brother is sick of her. Why does that matter? She gets sick of Arya all the time and she still loves her more than anything. With small, shuddering breaths Sansa reins back her emotions and forces the tears to stop running--only to lose control and hiccup another sob into the horse’s cheek.

A twig snaps behind her. She sucks in a breath.

“It’s just me.” Jon sinks down next to her on the log and holds out his hand, that large warm hand, and she lays her own in it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have left you alone. And I shouldn’t have said those things. I enjoy your company. I really do.”

“But?”

He shakes his head fondly at her. “No but. I enjoy your company, Sansa--and I enjoy being alone. I _need_ to be alone. I always have, no matter whom I’m with. Robb, Sam, Arya, Tormund… Even you. It has nothing to do with you. I just need time alone sometimes and when I don’t, I get...”

He gives her a shrug and a helpless smile.

“I know,” she says because she does know. She needs it too when the world feels too crowded (but it never does with him). “I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Just listen. You’ve made it clear you don’t want to discuss certain things and I’ve pushed you. I should’ve respected your wishes. I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again. Not Alys or castles or wives. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“But… Jon. When you feel like that, like everything’s too much and you need a moment, _tell_ me. Tell me and I’ll be quiet. Tell me and we’ll stop for a while and you can go take a piss in peace.”

“I will,” Jon says, laughing. “Thank you, Sansa.”

He’s beautiful like that, with his eyes glittering and his so-often surly mouth spread wide in an open smile, and for a moment she sees what Lady Shurwood saw: a handsome man--not a brother--and Sansa’s heart skips a beat before racing to catch up. He moves a hand to her cheek, cupping it, brushing away a tear with the pad of his thumb and now her heart is _thundering_ and she remembers that afternoon in the snowfall, on the battlements, that tender look in his eyes, and the memory gets muddled with the afternoon in the common room, when she thought he wanted to--

Sansa slips out of his gentle hold and gets to her feet.

“We should start moving again before it gets dark,” she says, gathering up the cards and his cloak.

Will can kiss Alys’ forehead, but Jon cannot kiss Sansa’s--at least not for as long as they pretend. Not when pretending means they must spend long moments looking at one another through the eyes of someone in love. Alys can touch Will, but Sansa cannot touch Jon, because now there must be a clear line marking where reality ends and pretending begins--and they can only pretend in front of others.

That night, when they lie down beneath yet another spruce tree, when Alys usually would’ve snuggled up against Will's back and snaked an arm around his waist, Sansa makes sure there’s a handbreadth between her and Jon. She falls asleep cold.


	6. Jon

Back resting against the fat trunk of an oak, Jon stretches out his legs and watches the raven ascending. Another letter from Bran. Cersei knows Sansa isn’t at Winterfell. _How_ she knows the letter didn’t say, but it did say she has eyes and ears all over Westeros. But Jon and Sansa have kept to smaller roads, empty fields, and forgotten paths through dense forests. Since leaving the Water Hammer they’ve only come across other people a handful times: a foraging family who only exchanged a polite word or two; a lord falconing at enough of a distance he didn’t even notice them; a shepherd leading his flock out to graze; and twice fellow travelers of whom only one sought to share their fire for a few hours.

Jon has to build fires now. Their provisions are gone, but he’s taught Sansa what roots and tender spring greens they can eat and she forages close to him while he hunts for rabbits or catches fish in lakes or streams. Often he wishes Ghost were with them. Then Jon could’ve ventured deeper into the woods to hunt properly while Ghost guarded Sansa. He misses him at night too, when Ghost could’ve curled up under the sleeping skins and filled the gaping distance between them. A distance Jon once upheld and found needed, but now when she’s the one who insists…

She knows. He let it slip and she knows. Not that she’s said anything--she wouldn’t--but ever since that day when he ranted about wives and sisters and redheads she’s stopped touching him. The only time she does is when they have to pretend, but while they pretended all the time when Will and Alys were brother and sister, now they only pretend when necessary. So far, that’s only been once, with that fellow traveler, but when Sansa rested her head on Jon’s shoulder and he wrapped his arm around her back it didn’t feel good at all.

It didn’t feel real.

Now she sits next to him, weaving wood anemones and liverworts into a wreath. She’s barely said a word all day. That stopped too, conversation. Well, not stopped, really, but it has fizzled and she’s not solely to blame. The game they used to play once helped in filling the silence, but now it only prolongs it. Like when she asked how Will and Alys got married and all Jon could think of was the wedding he’s so often dreamed about alone in his chamber and he got so flustered he only muttered, “I don’t know. You decide,” and rode on because he’s a bleeding idiot who still hasn’t learned how to talk to pretty girls.

Examining her work, Sansa turns the crown in her hands before placing it atop her horse’s head. She’s never been fond of horses, but the past few weeks she’s grown close to her mare and she often pets the horse, brushes its coat, braids its tail and mane and now that the snow is gone and flowers pop up all over the landscape, even decorates it with spring blossoms.

Her own hair is losing its raven luster. Red peers out at the roots. One bath and it all washes away, she says, but she has more dye for their next stay at an inn. Until then they’ve washed as best as they can in streams they pass, which means he wears the signs of traveling, and yet she always manages to look clean. Even out here, after all this time, she’s still a lady. When she returns to her spot by his side she doesn’t stretch out her legs like he’s done nor does she sit with her legs criss-cross like Arya would’ve. No, Sansa tucks them delicately under her and spreads her skirts to drape prettily even though they’re all alone, as if that grace is innate instead of for show like he used to think as a child when he told himself ladies were stupid.

“Daydreaming?” She gives a faint smile. “You looked as if you were thinking of something pleasant.”

“Aye.” He rubs his beard. “I was thinking about having a bath.”

She groans, eyes closed. “A _bath_. What I wouldn’t give…”

“I miss the hot springs. Today is perfect for it, isn’t it?” He squints up at the clear blue sky, the sun warm but the air crisp. “There’s still snow in the godswood too, I'd wager.”

“What, you’d roll around before jumping in?”

“You’ve never tried it! You don’t know how good it is. You should try it when we get back home.”

“Ladies don’t do that. Me, rolling around naked in the snow, can you imagine?”

Yes, he can. All too easily. Her skin all rosy from the cold, her nipples taut and-- _No. Stop it._ He eases out a breath. _Don’t think of her like that. Ever._

“I wish the gods would give us rain.” She sighs and leans her head against the trunk. “We could find an inn, have a bath, sleep in a real bed, eat something other than rabbit and wood sorrel and tender birch leaves.”

“You don’t like my cooking?”

“Jon. I really would love a bath and a pie and a _bed_.”

“We’re supposed to stay away from inns.”

“I know but…” She looks at him with a pout far too cute to be allowed. “Please, Jon? Please. Just one night. We’ll wear our hoods up and stay in the room the whole time.” She lays a hand on his arm, voice as soft as her gaze. “Just one night.”

Her eyes are the loveliest shade of blue he’s ever seen and they lure him in and make him lean closer and nod his yes while his gaze drops to her lips and-- _Oh, seven hells_. “But only because you stink.”

Sansa gasps. “I do not stink!”

“I didn’t want to tell you but…” Jon wrinkles his nose. “It’s becoming a problem. I thought you were a lady, Sansa.”

“I am a lady!”

“Not by the smell of it. You’re starting to attract flies.”

She sucks in another gasp. Jon’s face splits into a grin and she shoves him so hard he topples over and collapses on the soft yellow grass, stomach jumping from quiet laughter. Sansa gets to her feet and frowns down at him, her cheeks red and lips pursed with indignation, which only makes him laugh more.

“It’s not as if you smell particularly good.”

Jon’s laughter lodges in his throat. Is this why she’s kept her distance? He sits up and drags a hand through his hair so he can give himself a discreet sniff. He doesn’t smell like he just got out of the bath, no, but he spent years at the Wall. This is _nothing_ compared to what his brothers of the Night’s Watch smelled like.

“Do you really think I smell?” His question sounds whiny to his ears and he can’t help but blush when he finds her smirking down at him.

“Don’t worry, Jon. It doesn’t detract from your beauty. Lady Shurwood wanted you, stink and all.”

“Did she?”

“She congratulated me for having such a handsome husband. She even called you _pretty_.”

He hums, nodding. “Did Alys get jealous?”

“No. She trusts Will with both her life and her heart. He’s faithful always, isn’t he?”

“Aye. He is.”

“Come on.” She proffers her hand. “You promised me an inn.”

If he were Will and she were Alys--if they truly were--he would’ve tugged her to the ground for teasing him so they could lie there and look up at the sky and laugh together. He might even have tickled her or kissed her neck or her mouth and wound her hair around his fingers before caressing the tip of her nose with his own. But they’re not Will and Alys. They’re Sansa and Jon and so he lets her help him to his feet and then they mount their horses and set off in search for an inn even though he knows he should say no to her. But that isn’t something he’s learned to do either.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Jon says, ducking under a collapsed beam as he ventures deeper into the dark, abandoned barn, “you got your rain.” 

“But not my inn.” She’s shivering, arms wrapped around her as she scans the ceiling for a spot where the pouring rain won’t leak onto them. “There. That stall.”

Jon gathers up armfuls of whatever still-dry hay he can find and strews it in the corner where Sansa waits for him. After only a day’s ride they found the Kingsroad just fine, but inns are few and far between and once the sky opened up any kind of shelter had to do. The cottage belonging to the small farm was nothing but burned down wood and rubble, but the barn still stood and while it’s been abused by wars and weather, its broken roof and torn walls still held more appeal than curling up beneath a tree. Even the horses can follow them inside.

Jon and Sansa remove their cloaks and hang them between the stalls to dry. Jon unbuckles his sword belt, leans the sword against the wall, and gets the sleeping skins from the saddlebags. If they lie down properly the rain will wet them from toe to knee, and so they sit with their legs pulled up, backs against the chilled stones of the wall, sleeping skins draped around them. Sansa shudders and inches a bit closer.

“Cold?” he asks, inviting her into his embrace by holding out his arm. “Or is a cuddle out of the question what with this terrible smell of mine.”

“You were the one who had issues not me,” she says, leaning into him and humming when he pulls her in close and tucks the sleeping skins around her. “It’s not that bad. You smell like you. Only… more.”

“And you smell like you. Only more.”

She hums again and he thinks it sounds like a smile and this… _This_ feels real. She’s soft and relaxed and all Sansa--and when she presses her nose into his neck, he hums and smiles too, even though her nose is colder than ice.

“How are you always so warm?”

“I don’t know. Daenerys was always…”

Sansa stiffens in his arms, leans away, just a touch, and yet it feels as if she’s floated a hundred miles away.

“I just meant it could be a Targar--”

“I know what you meant.”

She sits up properly and his arm is trapped awkwardly between her rigid back and the cold stone. He tugs it free and wraps it around his knee and that stifling silence seeps back into the space between them. Why does this keep happening? The moment they find a rapport that works, he says the wrong thing and ruins it all. He should’ve known better than to bring up Daenerys.

They never talk about her or the things Jon felt forced to do while her prisoner and her subject. He told Sansa he didn’t love the woman and that was that. She’s had enough experience of similar situations to fill in the rest without his help--or so he’s assumed. Does she think he _wanted_ Daenerys? That he enjoyed fucking her enough to continue had Bran not told them the truth.

He watches Sansa through the corner of his eye but sees only a curtain of black hair hiding her beautiful face. If he didn’t know better he’d call it jealousy. But it’s not, is it? If she had any such feelings for him--any at all--wouldn’t she have seen the obvious solution already? The solution to the conundrum she keeps bringing up: the unwed castleless king who lives with his equally unwed cousin in her kingless castle. She’s already cloaked him and called him Stark. A few words exchanged in front of the heart-tree and their problems would be solved. The gods couldn’t have designed it better.

He should ask her. Bring it up, somehow. As a joke perhaps. Something he can laugh off if she stares at him as if he suggested she should marry Ghost--

Sansa inhales sharply through her nose and raises her head. Eyes moving as if she’s trying to locate a sound, she lifts a finger in the air and then he hears it. Light voices laughing and shrieking a good distance away.

“Just children,” he says and the tension leaves her body. “Just children running home through the rain.”

Maybe that’s where he should start. Ask her about children. She wants them, doesn’t she? If he starts there, then he can wind his way--

“Why don’t we have children? We're old enough for it,” Sansa says and he’s so stunned he can’t do anything but gawk at her. She smiles, shaking her head. “Will and Alys. I know why I don’t have them. I made sure of it. I would rather have died than letting more Ramsays into the world.”

“How did you make sure of it?”

“Myranda. I manipulated her. Taunted her about how well Ramsay would treat me once I carried his son. How it makes even the hardest man change. When she protested, I told her Roose treated Walda well enough. And when my moonblood came, I cried and cried and said I was scared Ramsay would try to kill me if I didn’t get pregnant fast enough. It worked. She started sneaking me moontea and I pretended I didn’t know what it was.”

She always keeps the same tone, the same expression when talking about Ramsay. As if she spoke of mending trousers or brushing her hair or putting another log on the fire. Not even a hint of feeling washes over her features, not even a hint of a tremble touches her voice, and he never knows what to do with it. He wants to hug her, hold her, protect her. Comfort her. But she didn’t even want it that day at Castle Black. All she wanted was for someone to listen, he supposes, so that’s what he’s done and yet it never feels sufficient. 

“How about you?” she asks. “Did you make sure too or were you just lucky?””

“No. I made sure of it too.”

Sansa turns her head slowly toward him, eyes round. “You snuck them moontea?”

“No. There are other ways. I uh”--he ducks his head--”I didn’t spill inside...”

“Oh. Didn’t they find that odd?”

“Not Ygritte. She wanted to wait until Mance’s war was over.”

“You talked about having children?”

“She did. And I let her. It was nice, hearing her talk about it, but it was just a fantasy. I knew we could never… I always knew I’d have to return one day. I always knew I’d have to leave her. I took a vow. Take no wife. Father no children.”

“But if you’d never sworn a vow to the Night’s Watch, would you have stayed with her?”

“There are days I think I would’ve, but most of the time I’m glad I didn’t. I didn’t belong with her. I belong with you and Arya and Bran.”

“For now. One day you’ll have to leave and find--” Sansa stops herself, sighs. “I’m sorry, Jon. I forgot.”

 _This is it._ Jon takes a steeling breath and gathers his courage and blurts it out before he can think better of it: “I’m not sure I have to.” His heart is beating so fast his voice trembles and he pretends it’s from the cold by shivering and pulling the sleeping skins tighter around himself.

“If you want heirs, you’ll have to.”

“Not if my heirs were your heirs.”

He counts silently to three and then turns his head to look at her. He can’t remember ever seeing her more shocked. Not when she listened to his tale about his resurrection or when she saw Wun-Wun for the first time or when she put two and two together and realized he’d lain with the enemy or even the other day at the inn when she thought he might kiss her. It’s fear he sees in her wide eyes and the pink o of her mouth, fear and disgust and an unwillingness to believe what she just heard. The courage twists itself into a tight knot around his heart and strangles its hopeful beating into a dull slog.

“You are my heir, Sansa. I have no children. And when you have them, I’ll make them my heirs.”

Her lashes flutter. She closes her mouth, swallows. “But… _Your_ children should be your heirs.”

“The throne never belonged to me. It was Robb’s. He was your brother not mine.”

“You were chosen by your people.”

“Aye, and I’ll rule, for as long as I can. I’ll do that. But marrying, getting myself a queen just to have children?” He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth downturned. “I know what it’s like to have someone you love--and I know what it’s like to have someone you don’t. It’s not what I want. All I want is to stay at Winterfell, with you, Arya, Bran, and Ghost. I don’t need anything more than that.”

His confession leaves her speechless. Her brow wears the faint lines of worry, of confusion, and her eyes flicker between his as if she’s searching for the unspoken he now knows he'll take to his grave. Somewhere far away a flash of lightning casts her in a brilliant white light that makes her eyes look wet and her skin look paler than snow. Then follows a rumble that sends the horses neighing and Sansa shakes herself out of her stupor.

“So you’re putting that responsibility on me? To give you heirs.” Her tone is teasing, her lips curved in a barely-there smile and despite it all, despite that awful clenching feeling around his heart, he smiles back because how could he not? “I don’t even know whether I want children.”

“You should. You’d be a good mother. And you do want them. I know you do.”

Sansa’s silent for a beat then, “I wanted it once, it's true, but not anymore. Not children, not a husband. I only want peace and quiet.”

Jon’s stomach feels odd, as if the rain has leaked into him and is dripping cold and heavy against his gut. “Suppose it’s up to Arya, then,” he says with a tone that manages to sound much lighter than he feels, “to provide us with heirs.”

Sansa peers at him, that barely-there smile back on her lips. “Tell her that and she’ll kill you.”

“I really should’ve asked for Lady Shurwood’s hand when I had the chance, shouldn’t I?”

Sansa’s barely-there smile grows into a proper grin. “Oh, is _that_ what you want? An older woman. I’m glad you finally told me.”

 _No, I want_ _someone who’ll be a good wife and a good mother. Someone who sews and reads and kisses me when I bring her flowers. Someone who’ll smile sweetly at me and blush when I tell her how beautiful she is in her pretty silk dress. I want a lady. That’s what I want, what I’ve always wanted._

“Aye. When Theon and Robb lusted after Ros and the other pretty whores, I lusted after Septa Mordane and Old Nan.”

“Now I know why you liked her pie so much.”

“Pie? That’s a new word for it.”

“Jon!” Sansa gasps out, eyes glittering, but then her happy face turns into stone.

One hand gripping his forearm, she puts a finger to her lips and then he hears it too beneath the steady rush of rain. Voices, coming nearer--but not children this time. The barn door creaks open and in tumbles two figures bundled up in dripping wet cloaks. Jon’s hand closes around the hilt of his sword and he shields Sansa with his left arm.

“Oh! It’s occupied.” A woman older than lady Stark was when he last saw her pulls the hood of her cloak down. Her eyes are brown, her hair salt-and-pepper, and her face bears the deep lines of working outside no matter the weather. “Evening, good folks. I’m Fria and this is my husband Odden. Say hi to the lovely couple, now, Odden,” she says and the man by her side mutters something indiscernible. “He’s not a chatty one, but it’s all right. I chat enough for two.” Odden emits some sort of grumbling noise. “All right. Enough for four--or so I’m told.” Fria grins, her teeth crooked and clean. “You wouldn’t mind sharing this lovely barn for the night, would you? The rain’s hammering down something fierce and we’re hours and hours from home.”

Jon and Sansa’s eyes meet and he reads her perfectly. She’s already assessed the situation, read the newcomers, and deemed them harmless. Jon lets his sword hand drop.

“There’s more than enough room for all of us. The name’s Will and this is my wife Alys.”

He wraps an arm around her back and plasters a friendly smile on his face, and when she leans her head on his shoulder it doesn’t feel right at all.


	7. Jon

While Fria rambles on about how she and her husband ended up in the abandoned barn (something about a fair and a broken wagon and a wheelwright who didn’t have enough room to take them in), her husband does his best to make her comfortable. He gathers hay for their dry corner of the stall, pulls her legs up in his lap, and even removes his dry tunic to drape over her legs so that he sits there shivering in his undertunic and damp cloak. His nose is big and round, his hair bushy and entirely silver, and his mouth completely still. He’s not even given a polite smile and barely looks at Jon and Sansa, but he does look at his wife with warm gray eyes and every touch he gives her is gentle.

“This damp cold ain’t nice to my legs,” Fria says. “They ache something fierce. Got cramps and all.” She gives the broken ceiling a jolly grin and juts her fist at it. “You could’ve at least waited until tomorrow before you opened up. Were you folks at the fair as well?”

“No,” Sansa says. “We were looking for an inn. This was the best we could find.”

“You didn’t look very well, then. There’s one only a bit off the Kingsroad.” Fria looks at her husband. “Half hour?” He grunts. “The Speckled Rooster. Good place, that is. Dake’s brother runs it-- Oh! You don’t know Dake, of course. He’s the wheelwright, lives just up the road.”

A half hour--that’s nothing. If they had coin to spare, Odden would’ve insisted on his wife getting to sleep indoors tonight, Jon thinks, but the wars have taken their toll on the smallfolk and fixing a broken wagon isn’t cheap. When he glances at Sansa, he sees the same concern in her eyes, knows her thoughts take similar turns, and he nods discreetly at her.

“What did you do at the fair?” Sansa asks.

“Odden’s a whittler. Well, we have a farm, but that’s his true passion, that. He makes the most extraordinary little figurines, my good old Odd. But the wars… They don’t sell the way they used to. Did sell cheese and butter, though.”

“Do you have any left?”

“Are you hungry, sweetling?”

Sansa smiles. “They figurines. I’d love to see them. I’m very fond of pretty things.”

Fria nudges her husband. “Go on, Odd. Show the nice lady your work.”

Out of his leather satchel, Odden pulls out a wooden cat perched on a stump with a fish in its mouth; a mighty bear standing on its hind legs; a grazing cow, its tail gently curved as if it were beating off flies; and a wolf howling at the skies. Sansa’s fingers close around the wolf and she holds it against the faint light coming from the dark blue sky for her and Jon to examine it more closely. The eyes, the ears, the nose, even the thick fur, all carved so perfectly every lord and lady he knows would pay good coin for their sigil to come alive this way.

Sansa puts the wolf back on the floor. “You have a rare talent, Odden. It’s beautiful.”

“He has more. Show them,” Fria says and Odden places smaller wolves around the big wolf to form a pack. “Have you heard about them wolves? The pack that runs over Westeros, lead by a huge she-wolf. Whenever there’s a sighting, right, people always want Odden’s wolves. An amulet of sorts, ain’t it?”

“Does it work?”

“We’ve had no complaints so far. But then, I suppose, the only folks who’ve got reason to complain are dead.” Fria lets out a cackling laugh that ends in a cough that makes Odden pull her closer still. “Oh, this weather. I don’t agree with it. At least winter’s over. There’s a boon for you.”

Sansa picks up one of the smaller wolves and turns it in her hands with a hum. “We could do with some protection, couldn’t we?.”

Jon rubs her arm with his thumb. “How much? For all the wolves.”

“ _All_ the…?” Fria trails off, mouth dropped open in shock, but then she shakes herself out of it and blurts out the price.

Jon pulls out his purse. “And the cat as well. My wife loves cats.”

Sansa leans into him with a sweet _oh-you-shouldn’t-have_ kind of smile that’s all Alys and he forces a silly Will smile on his own face, even kisses her temple in a way Edd would’ve grumbled about for days. Sickening, he would’ve called it, and Jon’s stomach agrees.

Coin exchange hands, figurines as well, and then Fria hands Jon the cat. “You can have it for free. For being so kind and letting us stay in here.” She glances first at the sword, then at the coin nestled in her palm before handing them to Odden. “Well. Not everyone is as kind.”

“If you give us the directions to the inn”--Jon widens Will’s grin--”I’ll do you one even better and leave you the whole barn to yourselves.”

Odden pushes around the coins in his hand, lips moving as if he’s counting. “We’ll show you,” he says, clutching those coins tightly. “Reckon we need a room too. Can’t listen to this one complaining about her damned legs all night.”

He shoots a feigned tired look at Fria, whose small brown eyes water and weathered face crinkles with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The rain has driven droves of people to seek shelter at the Speckled Rooster and Jon steps into a warm miasma of sweat, ale, stew, and woodsmoke. Many a head turn in their direction to take in the newcomers. Eyes linger on Sansa’s face, travel her body, travel his body as well to tell them in what way Jon’s armed, whether he’s a danger to those who only want to mind their own business or a challenge to those who don’t. But then someone shouts a greeting at Odden and Fria and everyone turns back to their food and drink and games of dice or card. Not one seat in the room is empty, though, which doesn’t bode well for the likelihood of getting a room. Jon sighs and waves at a serving maid, who makes her way to them with a friendly smile.

“We don’t have rooms. Been a fair in the village. But most of this lot can’t afford it, so we’re keeping the common room open all night as long as the rain pours and people eat and drink. And some are just here to get something warm in their bellies before moving on. Ah, there we go. See?”

She nods at a table where four men are gathering their things to leave and Jon’s glad for it. He doesn’t like how two of them ogle Sansa. The other two have already pulled their hoods over their heads to shield their faces, but he can still see that one of them has a broken nose, the skin split over the bridge and still healing. Outlaws, he gathers. Troublemakers eager to get away from whomever they just conned coin from with their card games before the poor victim figures it out. One of them, a gangly bald fellow, even bumps into Jon as they pass and he knows that move. It’s to nick his purse, but he keeps it well-hidden and well-attached to his belt and the man leaves the establishment empty handed.

Jon, Sansa, Fria, and Odden settle down at the now free seats and order soup and ale. More people greet the pair and while they do give Jon and Sansa curious looks, none stop to chat. It’s perfect, really. If someone comes this way and asks whether anyone’s seen a brother and sister traveling alone, no one will think of that young married couple who supped with a local farmer and his wife, and Jon allows himself to relax a touch. It is rather nice at the inn--especially compared to the barn. Rain hammers against the solid roof, the heat of the hearth dries their clothes, and soup warms their bellies and silences their mouths. From Fria’s peering eyes, though, he knows the silence won’t last. Her bowl’s barely scraped clean before the first personal question pops out of her mouth.

“We met as children.” Will takes Alys’ hand. “Taken care of each other ever since. Now we’re riding to the Stormlands. Got us a farm waiting there. Gonna work the land instead of waiting on the fine folk at the castle where we worked.”

“It’s a good life, that. Tending to your own land instead of someone else’s. Something to pass on to your children, if you have them.”

“Gods be good,” Will says with a loving look at his wife.

“It’s a shame you’re not staying. There’ll be a festival soon. The spring festival? Do you celebrate that in the North? No, not you lot and your old gods. But maybe they have it in the Stormlands too, never been myself--never been anywhere, really--but we honor the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone, and they bless us in return. Unwed girls find husbands. Those already wed have a happy year, and many a baby take root in their mothers’ bellies. Especially on that night.”

Fria nods sagely, but her husband shakes his head.

“It don’t work. It’s song and drink and dance, and folks having a bit of fun. That’s all.”

“It doesn’t work for all, no.” Fria’s easy smile tightens. “But for many. And we have Pate. He came to us when he was eight. Orphan boy. Now he’s almost a man grown and as much a son as anyone could ever wish for.”

“It sounds like a wonderful festival,” Alys says. “I do love songs. I hope they celebrate it in the Stormlands as well.”

“If they do, you really should go. You could do with the blessing, being newly wed and all.”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, I can always tell.”

Fria glances at their hands--their still joined hands--and Jon’s stomach lurches. As though Sansa’s hand was meant for his, it felt so right to hold it he hadn’t even noticed he never let go. When he looks at Sansa to see her reaction, to see whether it shook her at all, he finds Alys beaming back at him. At Will. Will raises her hand to his lips for a kiss before dropping it, and Jon finishes the rest of his ale while the women chat about that damn festival he’s more than happy they’ll miss. Even _imagining_ Will leading Alys in a dance, holding her tight while swaying to the dulcet tones of whatever troubadour graces the festival with his presence, sends Jon’s heart racing. A whole evening of pretending, of holding her hand and acting in love and--

Jon exhales sharply and, tugging at his collar, waves at the serving maid for a glass of water. It really is rather warm in the common room, isn’t it? And Sansa’s sitting so close to him, her thigh pressed tightly against his own. Jitters buzz in his legs, urging him to run, to flee, to put miles and miles between them, but all he can do is wrap an arm around her back and hold her close and tell himself that she is Alys and he is Will and nothing about this is real. Nothing about this affects him. Not even when she starts yawning and takes a cue from half the people in the common room (who’ve already snuggled up against a wall or each other) and winds her arms around him to make herself comfortable. The satisfied hum she emits when he secures her to himself with a tight hold on her waist means nothing nor does the shiver traveling through his body when she nuzzles his neck. It means nothing. It _is_ nothing. Nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Jon wakes at first light. Odden’s whittling a squirrel, his wife asleep on his shoulder. They slept in shifts, him and Odden, so that their wives and their coin were always protected, and now the old man acknowledges him with a nod. Sansa’s still sleeping, one hand curled around the strap of Jon’s cloak and one leg slung over his thigh. Gingerly, he lifts her leg off him and she mumbles something in her sleep. A protest? No. Just stop. It means _nothing_.

The serving maid is already taking orders from the people stirring from sleep, and soon their table is decked with boiled eggs, ham, and tea. Fria is last to wake and rubs her eyes sleepily and yawns as they break their fast, and Jon’s grateful for her not being a morning person. He could do without pretending for a moment. This must be the longest he and Sansa have stayed Will and Alys, and having her so near is exhausting. Exhausting and intoxicating. Excruciating. At least now they’ll be on the road again with no one but the woods as audience, and trees don’t much care about the nature of Jon and Sansa’s relationship. The sky doesn’t care, the woodland animals don’t care, and the Kingsroad doesn’t give a rat’s ass either.

“It was kind, what you did,” Jon says, back in the saddle with the Speckled Rooster and Will and Alys half a mile behind them. “You’re a good person, Sansa.”

“ _We_ did it," she says with a firm look and waits for him to acknowledge it with a nod before continuing, "They were so sweet. The way Odden fussed over her.” A gentle smile graces Sansa’s lips. “He loves her so much. They remind me of Mother and Father in a way. That deep affection, even after all those years.”

She wants that, Jon knows, even if she claims she doesn’t. She wants it, longs for it, and he could give it to her, would love to give it to her, but… Jon’s chest fills with a deep sigh he turns his head to let out discreetly.

“You’ll find it someday,” he says, tone light and heart heavy. “Someone to fuss over you and protect you.”

“My handmaidens fuss over me. And I have guards to protect me. Brienne. Even Podrick.”

Jon scoffs. “Podrick.”

“He protected me well enough during the war.”

“Did he?”

“He saved my life.”

“You never told me that.”

Sansa keeps her eyes on the road and refrains from stating the obvious: no, of course she didn’t. They never talk about the war because they rarely talk about anything at all anymore. One sentence from Bran changed their entire relationship and by the looks of this journey the only distance they’ll bridge is physical and the only thing they'll find their way back to is Winterfell--not to the easy relationship they had before the war.

 _Stop fooling yourself_ , a tired voice whispers in the back of his mind, _it was never easy_.

“It all happened so fast,” Sansa says, slowly, a pensive set of her mouth as she pauses to search her memory. “Wights had gotten into the Great Keep. A White Walker. His _eyes_. I froze. I just froze. Brienne tried to stop him, told me to run and I did. I got outside and I… I expected wights. Hordes of them. I remember that, how shocked I was to see fire instead. Fire _everywhere_. People screaming and flailing. And Daenerys, she was up there, blasting fire at the enemy but fire spreads and…”

Sansa shakes her head. “I was trying to get to safety, but I didn’t know where I was running. I heard you--I think. Your voice, calling my name. I looked and looked and I saw only flames. Then your voice was gone. I thought I’d imagined it and I ran. Don’t know where, didn’t know where Brienne was, didn’t know where anyone was. Then someone tackled me to the ground. It was Podrick. His arm… I don’t think he noticed. He grabbed my hand and told me to run and then we were in the crypts and I can’t remember. I think he fought off wights, but… He said Daenerys was aiming for me. That he saw her noticing me, that he’d promised Brienne he would protect me. It’s how his arm got burned. He got hit by the flame meant for me. Or that’s what he said.”

“She was aiming for you?”

“I don’t know whether it’s true, Jon. I think she saw nothing but wights. Not that it matters. She died; I didn’t.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“She died. She died and you were so quiet. I didn’t know how that affected you.”

“I told you I didn’t love her.”

“But sometimes feelings arise when you have to pretend that you do,” she says and Jon’s breath hitches in his throat. “Perhaps not love but _something_.”

“She was trying to take the North from us. She burned people alive. Sam's father and brother! You think I would want someone like that?”

“And Ygritte wanted to invade the North and you had to pretend with her and still you fell. And then you lost her, and now you've lost Daenerys as well. And you say you don't want to get married--what am I supposed to think?”

“I didn't lose Daenerys. She wasn't-- I _tolerated_  her because I had to, but I was nothing like with Ygritte. I didn't have to pretend with Ygritte! I was attracted to her long before we did anything. I tried fighting it--I did--but it didn’t work. It _never_ works!”

Jon's words ring out over the road and he closes his stupid mouth before it admits something even worse. Sansa's eyes are wide, almost glassy, and the color on her cheeks deeper than the usual rosiness from sunlight and crisp air. Then she looks away, the sun luring gleams of red from her long black locks which falls down to her waist. A waist he held for hours and hours while she hummed contentedly against his neck. While she _pretended_. Jon's stomach pulls into a tight knot. She's afraid. She's afraid this pretending will take them places where she doesn't want to go. She's afraid she'll trip and fall and find herself deep in the muck where he's already been stuck for far too long, and she's afraid he'll wind his arms around her and trap her there instead of helping her to her feet.

She's afraid because she doesn't want him, not truly, and if--

A man barrels out on the road. Shouts, waves his arms. Their horses whinny and buck--and then Jon falls, pain exploding in his body.


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a bit of violence (not graphic). Also, I'm neither a doctor nor a nurse. Just roll with it, please and thank you.

Billowing cloaks obscure her view as steel clashes against steel. She’s on the ground, the once-sharp pain that shot up her spine now a dull ache. The horses--hers is gone. Jon’s has a new rider, who looks down at her with something akin to sympathy. When rough hands haul her to her feet, his brow even knits. His hair is a mousy kind of brown and she knows him.

“Told you all he was a fighter,” the rider says. “Told you.”

“More gold for us.” Sansa’s captor locks her arms behind her back. “Unless you get off that horse and help.”

“I’m not fighting that one. Tell him you’ll kill her unless he stops.”

“And make him come at me? Are you off your head? He knows we want to sell her.”

“Give her to me,” the rider says. “I’ll throw her over the horse.”

“So you can ride off with her? How dumb do you think I am?”

The man’s breath is moist against her ear, reeking like old cheese. Arya would’ve fought him off by now while the useless Sansa does nothing but watch as Jon still fights with grace and fury even though he’s bleeding, limping, grimacing with pain. Two men already lie on the ground, dead, while three of them still give him a challenge. Too great a challenge.

Her heel crashes down on her captor’s foot. He howls; she darts forward, eye on the sword of one of the fallen. Sharp pain at her scalp. Yanked back by her hair, she cries out. Jon’s terrified eyes meet hers. He misses to parry a blow, the sword clattering to the ground. His right fist connects with a man’s jaw, while his left hand fumbles at his hip for a dagger. A dagger that isn’t there.

“Looking for this?” A red-haired man waggles Jon’s dagger in front of him and his friends grab Jon’s arms and pull them back. “What was it you said, little man?” He puts the tip of the dagger to Jon’s stomach and pushes. Jon blanches. Sansa screams, bucking and kicking to get free. “That you’d cut me up and leave me to the--

A blur of tawny and black and silver shoots across her field of vision. Growls and screams fill her ears. Blood sprays over her face. The hold on her loosens. Sansa stumbles, spins around. A pale wolf is ripping out the throat of a bald, gangly man. Her captor. She whirls back around. The robbers are all torn apart by the hungry jaws of wolves, all but the rider who’s thundering down the Kingsroad on Jon’s horse.

Another growl. Sansa’s head snaps toward the sound. There, only a few feet away, an enormous direwolf with yellow eyes and gray fur and white fangs revealed by a snarled lip.

Sansa’s heart races so hard she barely feels it beating. “Nymeria?” She holds out a shaky hand. “It’s Sansa. Remember? Arya’s Sansa. You’re not going to hurt us, are you?”

Head lowered, the direwolf prowls closer. Too many years have passed; the wolf doesn’t remember her and soon those fangs will close around Sansa’s throat and--

“Sansa.” Jon’s voice is weak and breathy. “Sansa.”

At the sound of his voice, Nymeria’s lip relaxes and the tension leaves her body. But Sansa still keeps an eye on the giant wolf as she kneels by Jon’s his side. So much blood, his clothes soaked with it, and when she takes his hand it’s drenched too.

“I’m here. What can I do? Where are you hurt?”

“Run back to the inn.”

“No. I’ll help you up. We’ll find the other horse and--”

Jon winces. “Think my foot’s broken.”

“But you fought. I saw you.”

“Had to, but now...” He presses his hand against a wound in his stomach. “I need help.”

“But what if I come back and you’re--” She sucks in a shuddering breath. “I’m not leaving you.”

He gives her hand a weak squeeze. “You have to. Nymeria will protect me. Won’t you, girl?”

The direwolf’s inscrutable eyes instill Sansa with no comfort or reassurance. While Ghost’s presence soothes her, this creature has run in the wild for too long; only a faint memory of who Jon and Sansa once were to her pacifies her and her pack. Any moment now, they’ll drag their prey back into the woods and Jon will be left all alone while Sansa’s running for help which won’t arrive fast enough to do any good.

One of the smaller wolves, tawny and slender, watches her with its head tilted to the side and despite the blood dripping from its muzzle, despite how it stalks toward her, Sansa remains calm. In its golden eyes she finds that comfort and reassurance after all. In them she finds familiarity.

“Bran?”

The wolf bites delicately at the fabric of her sleeve and tugs at her as if he wants her to stand, and relief floods her so strongly she can’t help but give a watery laugh. Leaning against the wolf, Sansa whispers her thank you into his fur. Then she strokes Jon’s pale cheek, the beard sticky with other men’s blood.

“You better be alive when I come back or I’ll never forgive you.”

Jon’s only reply is a faint smile full of affection and Sansa feels her chin wobbling. Then Nymeria lies down next to Jon and Sansa moves away before she falls apart.

 

* * *

 

The Speckled Rooster lies at least a mile up, but she refuses to think about that, refuses to think about Jon and his wounds and the blood, about how her body still aches from her fall. She knows only her feet and the road they’re pounding. She barely even notices Bran following her until the wolf leaps in front of her, halting her to a stumbling stop. Had she any energy to spare, she would’ve scolded him for almost making her trip, but now she only follows her omniscient brother as he leads her away from the Kingsroad and onto a smaller road. Soon her lungs burn and her throat feels like ice and a tight pain throbs in her side, but she ignores it all. Jon’s not going to die. She’s going to run and get help even if it kills her. It can be her only focus, making her legs move even when her body screams for rest.

Once a small farmhouse finally appears at the end of the road, she has no strength left and when she tries screaming for help nothing but a wheeze comes out. Sansa’s legs buckle; she collapses on the ground, her panting breaths whirling up dust that stings her eyes and coats her tongue.

“Alys?” A woman’s voice. Approaching footfalls. Skirts sweeping the ground as Fria sinks to her knees. “Alys? What happened?”

“My husband.” Sansa swallows to wet her dusty throat. “We were attacked. He needs help.”

“Pate! Get Eirryk. _Now!_ And tell Odden to...”

The thunder of blood rushing in Sansa’s ears drown out all sound and she closes her eyes and leans into Fria’s embrace, letting her tired body rest and the woman’s earthy green smell replace that of iron and fear. A warm hand strokes down her back and the ends of a braid tickle her cheek and a soothing voice fills her ears and Fria’s not Mother and yet somehow she is and Sansa allows herself to drift off.

 

* * *

 

She comes to in a wagon rattling down the road in a haste that sends her skirts fluttering around her tired legs and her hair whirling around her face. “Go right at the fork,” she says, pushing herself to sit. “He’s farther down the Kingsroad.”

“What happened, Alys?”

Sansa looks down at her hands where blood has seeped into the fine lines of her skin, into the creases of her palms, underneath her fingernails. In a voice all hollow and distant like the echoes in a sept, she stammers out the little she remembers. Fragments of fear and blood and fighting, of men she knows from the Water Hammer, from the Speckled Rooster, of men she doesn’t know at all. Not a word about the wolves, though. Not a word. Somehow her muddled mind still knows to keep that a secret. Somehow her muddled mind still knows to call Jon Will.

Then the wagon stops. Swords and daggers litter the road, and blood is smeared from pools drying in the sun as if the wolves have dragged the bodies into the woods for the bodies are gone. And so is Jon. Sansa’s stomach turns, head light and woozy, and she has to grip the railings of the wagon to stay upright.

“Will?” She slides off the wagon and to her feet. “Will!”

Around her is nothing but pines and rocks and trees spotted with the bright green of spring leaves. Around her is nothing but stumps and bushes and patches of the vibrant blues and yellows of spring flowers. But there, a flash of tawny fur behind some shrubbery, and even though her legs feel like porridge they still run run run. Fly over a ditch, over roots, over moss-covered rocks until they kneel by a tree where Jon sits propped up against the trunk, his hands pressed against his stomach and his lips pale as death.

“Jon?” She leans in close and feels a soft puff of warm breath against her cheek. “Oh thank the gods.”

She shouts for help that takes long enough to come that Sansa tears her eyes off Jon to look over her shoulder. Odden and Fria are traipsing toward her, one of them watching her while the other is scanning the woods as if they half-expect Sansa to be luring them into a trap. But when they see Jon, they rush forward and soon he’s lying in the wagon with his head in Sansa’s lap and his wounds wrapped by Fria’s shawl.

“Sansa?” he murmurs, blinking his eyes open, and his dull gaze struggles to focus on her. “Sansa.”

“It’s me, Will,” she whispers, running her fingers through his hair. “ _Alys_.”

His hand ghosts over her chin, over the dark locks tumbling over her shoulders. “Your hair…”

Then he drifts off again and Sansa’s vision blurs with tears.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the farm, a pimply boy of fourteen or so runs out to meet them and behind him comes an older man whose long nose is red and thinning hair is as wild as a dandelion puff. He carries a wooden chest which he dumps in Fria’s hands so that he can help carry Jon inside. As they move through the house, he peppers Sansa with questions she does her best to answer, and as they lay Jon down in a bed, he instantly starts cutting off Jon’s clothes with a trembling hand. But as he tries removing Jon’s tunic, Sansa’s hand closes around the healer’s wrist.

“Don’t.” 

“I have to see his wounds, child.”

“Then lift his tunic,” she says, rolling it up far enough to reveal two gashes in his abdomen but not so much that it reveals the scar over his heart.

“These.” The healer touches the old scars stretching over Jon’s stomach. “They look--”

“He fought in the war.”

The stench of old wine clings to the man, but his gaze is sharp and Sansa has to tamper down the urge to fidget. But then he breaks eye contact and starts cleaning and examining Jon’s wounds. Still with those trembling hands. He orders Fria to give Jon milk of the poppy, and the woman turns to the chest with a confidence that tells Sansa she’s helped the healer before. The chest is taller than it is wide, its wood and the brass hinges and handles of its doors and drawers all polished to a shine. Maester Luwin had one just like it. Sansa used to admire it and the many intriguing flasks and jars it contained from her sickbed while he chose salves and elixirs to cure her cold or ease the itchiness of chickenpox or calm her upset stomach. This chest carries similar flasks and jars, all labeled with a neat hand when most smallfolk can neither read nor write. He’s not wearing maester robes, though, nor a chain--and maesters don’t tend to villagers, normally. As far as Sansa knows there’s not even a castle nearby, and yet...

“Silk and needle,” he says, holding out his trembling hand and Fria finds it for him. “And get me some laths and cloth, and fresh clothes for him. Pate’s about the same size.” As Fria leaves, he turns to Sansa. “Thread this for me.”

“Is this wise?” Sansa asks as she helps him. “If you can’t thread the needle yourself--”

“I have decades of experience of stitching wounds, child. It might not be neat but it’ll do the trick.”

“I have a sure hand. I’ll do it.”

“A sure hand means nothing without the experience.”

“I have experience. I will do it.”

“This is serious work. Not embroidering.”

The steel of her mother flows into Sansa, straightens her posture, hardens her gaze, strengthens her voice. “I trust your hearing is quite well, Maester, or need I repeat myself?”

He stares at her as if she grew seven feet tall. “You need not, my lady. Forgive me.”

As she starts stitching, he still keeps a watchful eye on her, but after months as Ramsay’s prisoner and days of patching up soldiers wounded by the wights, her hand is used to this task, and soon the healer turns to his medicine chest for salves he smears on the stitched wounds before bandaging them. Then Fria returns with an armful of supplies, and she assists the healer as he tends to Jon’s foot while Sansa tends to minor scrapes and cuts on Jon’s thigh.

Once Jon’s patched up, the healer dries his hands on a piece of cloth. “A toe is broken and there might be a fracture in his foot. It’s impossible to determine. Could be a sprain. But if it’s a fracture it will take many weeks to heal.”

 _Weeks_. The air leaves Sansa in a whoosh. They have nowhere to go, the horses are gone, the saddlebags and their contents gone, and Jon is hurt and it’s her fault, for playing the hero, for thinking she could help and she’s _exhausted,_ every part of her aching, and her body sags, a pillow hitting her cheek, and fatigue washes over her in heavy, seductive waves she has no power to withstand and it pulls her consciousness into the ocean of sleep.

 

* * *

 

Wolf snarls fill her dreams, chase her across fields and hills and forests, where branches slap her bare arms as she runs. Then the colors of spring give way for the black and white of winter, for the red of blood. Before her stands the heart-tree, its crown whispering words unknown to her. Beneath it, in the black pond that’s cold even in summer, sits a naked Jon, his pale fingers waving at her to join him. But his eyes are blue and terrible and the wounds on his chest gape open, weeping blood black and thick as tar. Shaking her head, she tries to scramble away, but strong hands hit her back and she falls headfirst into that ice-cold pond and sits up in bed with a gasp. Her hands move on their own, pushing up Jon’s tunic to see his chest, and she breathes out her relief when she finds all his scars closed.

She pulls the tunic back down with hands shaking worse even than the healer’s-- The healer! Sunlight still slants through the small window. She can’t have slept long; he might still be at the farm. While she’d love nothing more but staying in bed and watching Jon’s chest moving with each breath, she must know the severity of his injuries.

At the door she hears murmuring voices and she cracks it open a smidge to listen.

“...a long time,” the healer says. “No one would blame you for turning them away.”

“It’s not in my nature, Eirryk,” Fria says, “turning folks away. But there’s something off. I feel it. And that could mean trouble, couldn’t it.”

“We’re letting them stay,” Odden says.

“Odd, I don’t think--”

“You saw them wolves. They watched over them, they did, even the big one. I don’t know who they are, but the gods want us to--”

“You don’t even believe in the gods.”

“I believe what I see and I saw them wolves. There’s one out there still, as if the old gods still linger down here after all. I’ve been carving wolves for years, Fria. This means something. Not pretending I know what, but it means something. We’re meant to care for them.”

“What do you think, Eir?” Fria asks.

Sansa holds her breath and presses her ear closer to the minuscule gap to better hear them, waiting for the maester to reveal whatever he’s noticed about her and Jon.

Eirryk hums. “You could use the help. You’re always going on and on about how you never have enough hours in a day. The girl must be good for something, mustn’t she? She can cook and clean. Mend clothes. Feed the chickens. And he looked like a strong lad. Once he’s on his feet, he can do his part too.”

“If he gets on his feet,” Odden says, his words wrapping themselves all too hard around Sansa’s heart.

Fria hushes him. "Don’t talk that way. The boy will be fine. And this would give me time to repair the chicken coup...”

Then the conversation moves to the different projects needed tending on the farm and Sansa slips out the door.

She finds herself in a room lit by daylight flowing in through two tiny windows and the firelight glowing in the hearth. There a kettle hangs, spreading the scent of meat, onions, and turnip. More kettles stand on shelves over the door and windows along with pots and urns of clay. Hole-bread, bunches of herbs, and garlic braids hang from poles running along the ceiling, and Odden’s wooden figurines line every free surface. The seven goods, woodland animals, birds, even flowers. And at a rough-hewn wooden table with two benches on either side sit Odden, Fria, Eirryk, and the boy named Pate.

“Oh, there you are.” Fria smiles kindly. “Are you hungry, sweetling? We were just sitting down to eat.”

“Thank you. I’m not hungry.” Sansa offers a polite smile before turning to the healer. “Will my husband live?”

“So long as the wounds don’t get infected. I’ll stay the night, keep an eye on the lad. You should too. A fever, pus, the skin looking red or black or-- Well, I’m sure you know what to look for. And you should eat.” When she opens her mouth to protest, he adds, “If you don’t take care of yourself, how will you take care of him? Sit. Eat. Drink.”

“But wash first,” Fria says. “I’m not tolerating dirty hands at my table, I’m not.”

After Fria has helped Sansa wash blood and dirt off her hands and face, Sansa helps her serve bowls of stew and easily takes down hole-bread from the pole the much shorter Fria would’ve used a stool to reach. To mimic their table manners, Sansa watches them tuck into their food first before touching her own. While they have spoons, all of them break off bits of bread and soften it in the stew before scooping up a morsel of meat or turnip and shoving it into their mouths and so she does the same. The bread is tough, the stew thin, and neither taste much like anything. Her jaws work and work and her throat swallows while the others discuss the weather and the fair and share village gossip. She’s almost finished her portion before remembering her courtesies.

“This is delicious.” She smiles at the old woman. “You’re a talented cook.”

“And you’re a liar.” Fria brown eyes glitter. “Worry takes the taste out of everything. Must taste like mud to you. Now, finish your serving and go to your husband.” She gives Sansa’s hand a pat. “Love’s an important part of healing, isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

Jon still sleeps. His foot is propped up on a thick quilted blanket folded into a neat rectangle and his left hand rests on the spot where she lay only moments ago. As if he misses her, even in milk of the poppy induced sleep--and why wouldn’t he? He’s injured in a strange place; he needs her by his side. Sansa drapes a wool blanket over him and pulls off her boots and peels off all the dirty, bloodstained layers of clothing until she’s in her shift. Then she lies down next to him and fits one hand snugly in his, resting the other on his chest to feel the beating of his heart against her palm.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she whispers, burying her face in his hair. “I’m so sorry.”


	9. Jon

The world sounds wrong, smells wrong. No owls hoot and no wind whispers through the branches above and when Jon breathes in deeply, no scents of pine, damp soil or yellow grass fill his nose. And although he’s taken great care to always lie on his side since they left Winterfell, always turned away from her, he’s now on his back and she’s so close, too close, the heat of her body radiating against his. Jon tries rolling over on his side, but his body feels as though he’s been dragged behind a horse for a mile or two and he stills with a groan, searching his foggy mind for a memory to explain the pain. Blood. Growling. Clashing swords. Gentle touches. The heat of tears on his cheeks. Sansa’s tears. He tries speaking her name, but sleep reclaims him before a sound has left his lips.

In his dreams, though, he does call her name but no matter how hard he tries it always comes out wrong. Alys, Alys, Alys. And Alys’ raven hair dances when she spins around and Alys’ eyes sparkle when she sees him and Alys’ mouth calls him husband when she reaches for his hand. Husband. A lie. And her hair is a lie and her smile is a lie and her touch is a lie. And yet Jon lets her rope him in and bind him to her.

 

The next time he wakes it’s too a sharp gasp in his ear and warm fingers pressing against his neck.

Without opening his eyes, Jon closes his own fingers around hers. “I’m alive.” Barely. His voice sounds like the Night King’s, like crackling ice and death. “Water?”

The mattress shifts beneath him. Blankets rustle. A door creaks. Murmured voices. Padding footsteps, two sets of feet. A wooden cup to his lips. Water, warm and sweetened with honey. Jon’s eyelids feel heavier than the gate at the Wall and he never sees the man who gives a name he’s forgotten by the time more milk of the poppy pulls him back to sleep, nor does he remember it when he wakes much later in such need of emptying his bladder he nearly wets the bed.

“I’ll help you,” Sansa says.

“No. Get me that-- Get the man.”

“And tell him what? That my own husband won’t let me--”

“I’ll manage,” he growls and once she’s handed him the chamberpot he rolls over on his side, back to her, and manages just fine despite the pain.

He’s asleep again before she’s even left the room to empty the chamber pot.

 

* * *

 

Soft voices break through dreams of Winterfell, of crawling through a snow-covered godswood to numb his aching body, and Jon finds himself in a lumpy bed with cool fingers prodding at his chest and warm hands cradling one of his. Night has passed. Even with his eyes closed, Jon feels the sunlight pooling on his face.

“He’s healing nicely, my lady,” a man says, the cool fingers disappearing. “Better than I expected. He’s a strong lad.”

Jon pries his eyes open. The milk of the poppy and the sunlight filtering through his lashes create a dreamy haze through which he sees the blurry shape of someone tall with hair like a halo around his head. The owner of the cool fingers. Jon turns his head to see who holds his hand and finds an equally blurry shape sitting next to him in bed, her hair long and much too dark.

“Where’s Sa--?”

“It’s me. Alys.” Sansa’s voice. Sansa’s hands giving his a gentle squeeze. “ _Alys_.”

“Alys,” he whispers, eyes drifting closed again. “I remember.”

Water splashes. Flows in a rush that leads to gentle dripping as if someone’s wringing out a rag.

“We need to wash him before I put on new bandages. All of him this time or he’ll get bed sores. If my lady would be kind enough to help me turn him over.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

A beat of silence, then. “My lady, whatever your secret, it’s safe with me.”

“I’ll do it myself, Maester Eirryk. That will be all.”

 _Maester_? As the man leaves, Jon forces his eyes back open and blinks until his vision clears, expecting to find the high ceiling, stone walls, rich tapestry, and large glass windows of a castle. Instead he sees the wooden walls of a log cabin, a clay vase with wilted spring flowers sitting on the sill of a tiny window, a spinning wheel standing in one corner, a basket of skeins by its foot, and beautifully crafted figurines of woodland animals standing on a shelf over the door. Odden’s work.

“You’re awake.” Sansa breathes out in a smile. “How are you? Oh, that’s a stupid question. You must be feeling awful.”

“I can wash myself,” Jon says, the words slurring together.

“You can barely speak.”

With a groan, he rolls over on his side and starts pushing himself to sit, but the pain striking his body in too many places steals his strength and he sags with a gasp. Instantly, Sansa’s there to support him, hold him up, the soft skin of her hands against the bruised skin of his back and stomach. The _bare_ skin of his back and stomach. Glancing down, he finds his tunic folded up to cover only his chest and a shocking lack of breeches. At least blood-stained smallclothes cover the parts of him he’d rather she never sees.

( _Well_ …)

“Where’s the bleeding wash cloth?”

“Stop being silly. I’ll wash you.”

The bed creaks, mattress dipping, and then she stands on the floor before him. Now his vision’s clear enough to see her perfectly: the dull black of her hair; the freckles of her nose; the outline of her waist and hip beneath a threadbare shift far too short for her. He stares at her toes--small and pink, all ten of them--and at her hands where they hang by her sides, relaxed and soft. Hands whose touch he’s craved for longer than he should--but a touch born from desire not pity.

“I’ll do it myself!”

She sighs. “Jon--”

“No!” He glares at her. “If I were the one who insisted on washing you, how’d you feel? Would you just take your clothes off and let me?”

Color drained from her face, Sansa hugs her arms around her body and averts her eyes as if he’d already tugged her clothes off and left her bare. Her lashes flutter. Then her tongue darts out, sliding slowly over her bottom lip, and she returns her eyes to meet his.

“All right. Wash yourself, but only the”--her gaze drops to his crotch before skittering away--”the parts you really don’t…” She eases out an uneven breath, face redder than the petals of a poppy. “I’ll do the rest. You can’t exert yourself. You need rest to heal properly.”

Jon clenches his teeth but nods his consent.

“Odden made this for you.” She hands him a wooden walking cane, its handle carved into the head of a wolf. Like Longclaw, but with a longer snout for a comfortable grip. “Bran warged into a wolf and guided me here, to Odden and Fria’s farm. They saw the wolves. They saw Nymeria. Odden thinks it’s the old gods watching over us. That it’s a sign or a blessing. They don’t know who we are.”

Jon tightens his grip around the wolf’s head, puts his weight on it, pushes. His knees wobble. His head spins. Sansa’s arm slides around his back and holds him upright and he can’t help but lean into her, resting his woozy head on her shoulder. A low, comforting noise hums in the back of her throat, and he allows his eyes to close, allows himself to soak up the strength she offers him. Her hand grips his hip, the pads of her fingers touching the hip bone and he feels the sharp angle of her own hip bone digging into his side. Too close.

Jon leans away from her and she gets to work without a word.

 

Ridding him of his tunic takes both time and effort, but soon Jon stands almost bare while Sansa stands a few feet away with her back turned to him. Only his smallclothes left then. Squeezing the cane, he loosens the laces and shimmies out of his smallclothes until they’re on the floor. He’s naked. Entirely naked in the same room as a scantily dressed Sansa. A Sansa he can’t ask to leave the room in case he needs her help. A Sansa he can’t ask to leave the room because she’s supposed to be his bleeding wife. _Oh, seven hells_. Best get on with it.

On the nightstand waits a bowl of warm water, a cloth hanging over the rim, and a small wooden box full of soft, gray soap. It’s a pain and a half, this, washing himself. Every movement an agony, but he’d rather rip every stitch than having Sansa washing his most private parts. Now and then the impulse to glance at her hits him, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly at what he’s doing. Even the _thought_ of looking at her, at how the shift follows her curves, when he washes his crotch fills him with so much burning shame it’s a damn miracle he’s not turned into a pile of ashes already.

Fresh clothes he doesn’t recognize lie in a neatly folded pile on a dresser beneath the window. He hobbles one step forward and finds a pair of underpants with long enough legs to reach his knees. Getting them on is worse even than the washing and he mutters every curse he knows between gritted teeth. Then he collapses on the bed.

Without as much as glancing at him, Sansa grabs the bowl and cloth, leaves the room, and returns with a fresh cloth and new water. Then she gets to work with gentle hands. Her lips are parted and pink and her cheeks pinker still and Jon looks up at the ceiling. As a child, whenever it was bath time, he’d be scrubbed clean by a servant in a rush to get her work done and the bristles of the brush would tear at his skin until he was red and raw. Care and comfort was a rare thing for the bastard of Winterfell, even when he was sick. So this… Jon closes his eyes and relaxes under Sansa’s hands. Oh, _this_. Never has he felt anything as tender as her touch.

“You’re bruised here,” she says, ghosting her fingers over his lower back.

“Hit something when I fell off the horse. And then Nymeria dragged me into the woods. That didn’t help. Someone was coming, I think. I don’t remember much.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s my fault. I distracted you and you got hurt.”

“It was _not_ your fault.”

“I tried to help and I just made it worse and I thought you were going to die. You’ve been out for days and I thought you were dying.”

She draws a shuddering breath, sniffles, and he forgets about his wounds, spins around to pull her into his embrace and hold her close until she feels better. But pain stabs him like a million daggers and Jon cries out, doubling over, clutching is wounds, fresh hot blood seeping out between his fingers.

“Be careful!”

She climbs over him, orders him to lie down, and he closes his eyes and lets her tend to his injuries. Out for days, she said. Days. Jon swallows. She must’ve done this before, then. Washed him. Redressed his wounds--or maybe not, considering he still wore his own dirty clothes. Unless she washed only some parts of him… Perhaps he’s better off not knowing.

Jon drifts into a blank space in his mind where her touch doesn’t affect him, where his body is nothing but meat and skin and bones.

Once she’s done, she helps him into a fresh tunic, piles up pillows behind his back so he’s half-seated, and tucks the blankets around him. He keeps his eyes closed through all of it, for he knows he’ll find nothing but a sister’s affection and care in her gaze when all he can offer in return is a husband’s love and gratitude.

“Are you in pain?”

He makes himself smile. “Constantly.”

“I’ll give you something, but you have to eat first.”

Hunger must’ve gotten lost in all the other unpleasant sensations in his body, but as she settles down on his bedside with a bowl of hot soup that smells of root vegetables, mutton, and dill, his stomach rumbles like thunder. Smiling, Sansa dips the spoon into the bowl.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “I can feed myself.”

She purses her lips and blows away the steam curling from the spoon. “You saved me. The least I can do is take care of you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Sansa.”

She tuts at him and quirks her mouth into a teasing smile. “I'm Alys now. I’m your wife. It’s my duty to take care of you. Now be a good husband and open up.”

He tries glaring at her, but it proves impossible when she’s smiling at him like that. Soon he smiles back like the fool he is and opens his mouth dutifully and lets her feed him until the grogginess only a hearty meal can bring spreads through his body and elicits enough yawns for tears to leak from his eyes. Sansa pats the corners of his mouth with a napkin and then gives him a cup of tea brewed by the healer that eases the pain and slows the mind. Blinking sleepily at her as she removes a pillow to help him lie comfortably, Jon’s so full of love his lips almost spill the truth. Almost. By some luck, sense still controls his mouth and keeps it firmly shut (while his heart keeps it curved in a soppy smile).

Sleep comes suddenly. One moment she’s sitting there in the sunlight, holding his hand, and the next she’s lying next to him in bed, the room painted midnight blue, with her fingers once more pressing against his pulsepoint. How often has she done this the past few days? How often has she woken up with a gasp and fumbled after his pulse, desperate to make sure he’s not left her all alone so far away from home without horses or provisions or anyone to protect her?

“Still alive,” Jon murmurs, patting her fingers.

She shifts her hand to close around his fingers, squeezing them hard as words rush out of her. “I keep dreaming that I’m running from danger. And I run and I run until I find you. Sometimes you’re at Castle Black and you just lie there on a table, all pale and still, other times you’re at home and at first I think you’re alive because you move and smile, but something’s wrong. You’re cold as ice and you never speak and you-- You’re always dead. Always. Whenever I find you you’re dead.” She swallows wetly, her breathing trembling and weak. “I don’t know what I would do if you died.”

“If I die--”

“No. Don’t. You’re not dying.”

“If I die, stay here until Bran finds you. And if we’re somewhere else, find a safe place and stay there until he finds you. He’ll always find you and he’ll send help. You won’t be alone for long, Sansa, I promise.”

“That’s not why I don’t want you to die, you idiot. I don’t want to lose you! Don’t you _dare_ dying.”

“I’ll try not to,” he mumbles, a smile spreading on his lips, warmth spreading in his chest.

“May I…” She snuggles close enough that he feels her breaths against the side of his neck and, gingerly, lays her hand over his heart. “Does this hurt? I just want to feel your heart beating.” She lifts her hand. “Unless it hurts?”

“Doesn’t hurt,” he says, laying his own hand over hers to keep it on his chest, his smile growing even wider, and then the dizziness of the pain and of the tea and of _her_ makes him act the fool.

There’s no conscious thought behind it, only instinct he’s unaware of acting on until he feels lashes against his lips and Sansa’s quiet laughter against his throat.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, resting his head back on his pillow. “I was just trying to kiss you goodnight.”

His heart must’ve beaten a thousand times before she asks, “And what were you aiming for?”

“Your forehead!”

“Then your aim’s a little off. That was my eye, Jon.”

“I noticed.”

Hadn’t every part of him ached, he would’ve left the bed, grabbed that cane, and hobbled away. Found some ale. Sat himself on the porch to enjoy the night air cooling off his burning face and the ale numbing his mind and the solitude slowing down his racing heart. A heart that beats so fiercely for her and everything she is and all the things she means to him. A heart that beats so fiercely against her hand still resting on his chest and he knows she can feel it, how she twists him around.

A thousand explanations weigh on his tongue, but even in this state he knows uttering any of them would leave him in a tangle of words that all too easily could cost him his dignity and reveal the truth hidden in his heart. A truth he’s found himself close to revealing far too many times already. Perhaps he should roll over on his side again, the wounds be damned, or at least remove her hand. Tell her it hurts after all (because it does, doesn’t it?) but as his fingers close around hers to lift them off, soft lips press against his temple.

“Goodnight,” Sansa whispers and settles in by his side, her hand still splayed over his heart, and he allows it.

Even though he should create some distance between them, he allows it. He's too tired, too groggy, too aching to fight it tonight. It's so much easier to let the effects of the tea still lingering in his body help him flee into sleep. Tomorrow he can pretend it never happened.


	10. Jon

Although he hasn't said a word about that drunken goodnight kiss nor tried to repeat it, Sansa has brushed a tender kiss to his temple every night before settling in by his side. And every night he’s struggled to fall asleep afterwards, thoughts about what those little kisses mean plaguing him more than any physical pain every could. Her scent plagues him too. How it wafts over to him each time she moves. _Gods_ , she smells good, that scent beckoning him to turn his head, to come closer...

Jon presses his lips together and turns his head the other way. Moonlight falls over the wilted flowers in the clay vase. He stares at them, controls his breathing, controls his heartbeat. He’s out of the woods. Why is she still so close? How could anyone expect him to sleep with her this close? Sometimes she strokes his scar or gives a content little moan and it stirs thing within him, desires better left suppressed.

“Can’t sleep?” she murmurs.

Jon pretends to bite back a groan. “It’s the pain.”

She lifts her head, pale eyes like silver in the moonlight. “I thought it was getting better. I’ll get you more tea.”

Tea that might give sleep and ease pain but also makes him bold and careless and stupid. One afternoon he woke up to her braiding her hair and his foolish mouth smiled and called her pretty. One evening he woke up to her tucking him in and his dumb fingers squeezed her waist while his dumb lips mumbled, “What a sweet wife I have.” And one morning he woke up with his hand full of warm, soft, forbidden thigh. She’d slung her leg over his and his greedy hand had kept her there. Luckily, she didn’t wake when he gingerly nudged her off him and she’ll never know how his sleeping self betrayed her trust.

“I don’t want more tea.”

“But you’re in pain.”

“I can handle it.”

Sansa lifts her brows and lets her pointed silence speak for itself.

“If I get used to it, that tea… Have you seen Eirryk’s hands? The way he’s shaking sometimes when it’s been too long?”

“He drinks ale and wine, Jon.”

“What’s the difference? You get addicted all the same.”

“Perhaps we can ask them for a tub? A warm bath eases pain.”

“I’m not sure I can bathe before my wounds have healed.”

Sansa’s quiet for a beat, then she inches a little closer. Close enough that her knee nudges his thigh. “She would kill me if she knew I told you this but, when Arya was little she’d sometimes come to my room at night because of a nightmare, and I’d tickle her back until she fell asleep.”

“Sounds to me as if she lied because she wanted her back tickled.”

Sansa gives a low chuckle far too close to his ear, her breasts brushing his arm, and Jon squirms, masking his discomfort with another grunt of held-back pain he doesn’t feel.

“I know you can’t sleep on your side yet, but I could tickle your arm.”

“The pain’s not that bad anymore.”

“What, it magically went away right this moment?” Sansa shakes her head at him. “Your hair, then? I can run my fingers through your hair. It’s very relaxing.”

Her fingers dance along his hairline and he should swat her hand away with a glare and yet he finds himself enthralled by the warmth in her silver eyes and the tenderness in her gentle touch and a different kind of pain strikes him. The heartache that makes him miss how it was his foot which felt as if it were breaking into a million little pieces. He’d take that pain over this sweet torture every day.

“Just focus on my fingers.” Her voice is smooth and seductive in his ear. “Focus on this.” She strokes her fingers over his hair, feather light, and his skin prickles with goosebumps. “How wonderful it feels. Just _relax_...”

Lashes fluttering, Jon’s eyes roll back in his head as Sansa rakes her fingers across his already tingling scalp. It _is_ wonderful. Too wonderful. The tea isn’t the only thing he could risk getting used to, addicted to, but before he’s managed to decide which is more dangerous, his body’s floating away on waves of pleasure while his mind drifts off to sleep.  


* * *

 

Wrapped in laths and bandages, Jon’s foot looks like a building under repair. He puts his weight on it. Not too bad. In her sleep, Sansa rolls over on her side with a low moan and fumbles after him on the empty linen. Slowly, she blinks her eyes open and murmurs his name.

“Want hair? Mm, stroke.”

“No,” he says, smiling at her incoherence. “I need to make water.”

“Chamberpot.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

She lets out a displeased and all too adorable noise and falls back asleep, hand clutching the linen on his side of the bed in a way he decides to ignore before he reads untruths into the gesture.

Trapped in this room, time’s stopped meaning anything. Day and night have bled together and he can’t quite tell for how long they’ve lain in bed with her hand over his heart or her fingers through his hair. Three or ten? Looking at the red at her roots, though, he imagines it’s closer to the former. Either way, his body aches with the need to move, to suck in crisp, fresh air. It aches for drawing in a different scent than what’s quickly become his favorite scent in all the world. A scent he finds himself seeking out much too often when he turns his head in half-sleep and noses at her temple, her cheek, her neck and forgets she’s not his to breathe in. It aches for a moment where he’s not enveloped by Sansa (because it craves being enveloped by her in every way).

Jon closes the bedroom door carefully behind him. Between the hearth and the kitchen table lies a big lump, salt-and-pepper hair sticking out of the blankets, and Jon’s conscience slows his steps. Fria’s alone, snoring softly. As quietly as he can, he hobbles to the door and nudges it open. Outside, on the small low porch in the strong light of the full moon (and the soft glow of a lantern by his side), sits Odden on a rough-hewn bench with a knife and a block of wood, chewing on a strand of long, yellow grass. He looks up at Jon with a nod before returning his attention to the whittling, and Jon relieves himself behind a thick oak before hobbling back, the grass cool against the bare toes of his good foot.

“Nice, being out.” Jon leans against the wall. “What are you making?”

“Don’t know. Wood tells me.”

“Thank you for the cane.”

Odden nods, shifts the grass from one side of his mouth to the other.

“And for the bed. It’s not right, kicking you out of your own bed. Is there anywhere else we can sleep? In the barn? We just need a bit of hay and a roof over our heads.”

Odden dismisses his concern with a _bah_. “Since her legs started aching, Fria sleeps in front of the hearth more often than not. Pate sleeps in the barn. And I could sleep on a log.”

“You’re up now.”

“Like the quiet.”

Jon smiles, nodding. “I’ll be on my way. Just… You don’t happen to have a tub, do you? Alys would enjoy a bath. Wouldn’t mind one myself.”

“Had one. Winter was rough. Was snowed in for long, we was. Had to use the wood to feed the fire. Then went the kitchen table. The benches. Tried to burn my figurines but Fria said, not the figurines and not the spinning wheel, she said. Made a new table. Made new benches.” He squints out over the trees surrounding them. “Not made a new tub yet what with the hot springs and the stream. Waste of wood, that.”

“Hot springs?”

“Through the woods. To the east.” He nods at Jon’s foot. “Not too far.”

Then the old farmer bends his head deeply over his work and Jon takes the hint and returns to bed. He’s barely pulled the blankets over his body before Sansa’s there, her hand finding his chest, her nose finding his neck, her soft hum finding its way into his heart, and he’s so close to inviting her into his embrace it frightens him. It would be so easy, just stretching out his arm and letting her pillow her head on his shoulder. Would she like that?

_Not if she knew your dirty thoughts._

Jon twists away his body, head, and mind as best as he can and when he wakes in the morning his shoulders are killing him. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rolls his shoulders, rolls his neck too to loosen the stiffness from his muscles. Messy curls tumble over his eyes and he combs them back, fingers snagged in a huge knot at the back of his head where he’s rubbed against the pillow night after night.

“I’ll do that.” Warm fingers brush his own and before he knows it Sansa’s sitting behind him in bed and working out that knot with careful hands. “I’ll rub your shoulders too.”

“You don’t have to take care of me.”

Sansa sighs loudly. “Do we really need to do this every time? Why can’t you just accept my help?”

_Because if you knew how your touch made me feel, you wouldn’t offer it so readily._

“You’re so used to being the strong one,” she says and when she tugs the tunic off his body, he lifts his arms after all instead of protesting. “You’re not used to someone else taking care of you, but everyone needs that sometimes, Jon. Even you. And I like taking care of you.”

“You do? Why?”

She gives him a light, playful pinch in his good side. “Helps me pass the time.”

The flowers in the clay vase have shriveled into dry wisps. Not a drop of life remains in their frail bodies and yet he stares at them, tries sussing out each type despite their state (violet, wood anemone, coltsfoot, snowdrop) to take his mind off Sansa’s nimble fingers massaging his neck and the heels of her hands working out the kinks in his back and her voice humming a melody from their childhood.

She never complains. Never. Not a word about how terrible it must be for her to be trapped here, taking care of him and pretending to love him just because he couldn’t protect her from Ginger and Mouse Pelt and all their greedy friends. Instead of moping or brooding or sighing heavily when she helps him, she always has a smile and a kind word and a tender touch.

The gods couldn’t have created a better person and all he has to offer in return are perverted feelings and a body that reacts to her every touch.

Jon closes his eyes and thinks of death until his body is cool and soft.

 

* * *

 

Odden leads Jon past a daffodil-covered slope leading down to the stream where Fria does the washing, through the woods where Pate lays snares for rabbits and climbs trees to search for egg-filled nests, and to the mossy grounds below a low mountain at whose foot three splotches of water reflect the rubble surrounding them. They’re not large by any means--perhaps twice as wide as Jon is tall--nor are they deep, but they’ll do.

“Eirryk’s stopping by for supper,” Odden says as they make their way back. “He’ll let you know if you can bathe.”

“He’s a maester? At which keep is he posted?”

“Was.”

“Is there a story behind it?”

“Not mine to tell, it’s not.”

“No, suppose not,” Jon says, absentmindedly as the sea of yellow and white and green unfolding before them has stolen his attention.

The daffodils sway gently in the mild breeze and he remembers little Sansa’s namedays and the bouquets she used to receive. Not from Jon--Lady Stark wouldn’t have liked it--but from Robb or Bran or one time even Rickon. He presented her with flowers torn from the ground, roots and dirt dangling beneath them, the petals somewhat crushed, and Sansa beamed brighter than the sun as she breathed in deeply the scent of flowers.

By now the memory of her little face has blurred, but Jon still knows she never beams like that anymore.

 

* * *

 

Sitting on a stool outside the barn, Sansa cleans wool clothes with a brush. The work and the sun on her back have left her cheeks flushed and her nose freckled. When Odden and Jon’s steps crunch over the dry path, she looks up at them with a smile.

“Did you have a nice wa…”

She trails off, gaze drifting down to the bouquet in Jon’s hand, and he limps up to her with the flowers stretched out. The clothes and the brush fall forgotten from her hand, and she rises to her feet while staring at those flowers as if he was offering her a plate of gold and jewels. 

“Are those for me?”

With her hands full of daffodils in golden yellows and brilliant whites, she gazes at him with glossy eyes. Her lashes beat like butterfly wings, quick and light, and the sunlight catches in the delicate teardrops clinging to them. One of the tears slip from her lashes and perches itself on the high of her cheekbone and not until he sees the pad of his thumb sliding over her skin does Jon realize he acted on the impulse to brush it away. A small breath leaves her. The silence between them reaches into his gut and squeezes everything inside him. Why isn’t she beaming the way she beamed at her brothers?

Then Sansa’s chin dips, her gaze drops to his mouth and he remembers one of the oddest conversations of his life, when they laid out the rules of Alys and Will and kissing.

Alys would kiss Will for bringing her flowers. A wife would kiss her husband. And Odden is there. Fria is there too, somewhere; he hears her faint singing about a bear and a maiden. Pate’s chopping wood, the whacks and thuds distant and loud all at once--or is that Jon’s heart? He can’t quite tell. Is that why Sansa’s so stricken? Does she think he was hoping for a kiss? That’s what she’s used to, after all, a gift wrapped in ulterior motives. A gift for her forgiveness, for her affection, for her indebtedness.

“For taking care of me,” he says. ( _For your smile_.)

“They’re beautiful,” Sansa murmurs and then she leans in and his eyes fall shut and her lips press against his cheek for a breath, for two. He holds the third and thanks the gods for the cane. His fingers dig into the polished wood, and its tip dig into the dry ground, and when Sansa pulls away he just barely gets his eyes open before she opens hers and their gazes meet.

“Thank you, husband,” Alys says in a too-sweet voice and he sags as the breath he held leaves him. “I love them.”

Jon feels his mouth form into a tight lipped smile, feels his head nod at her, feels his feet moving toward the house, feels his heart breaking, just a bit.

They can’t stay here. By the time his body has healed, his heart will be irreparable.

Lots of gold vanished the day of the ambush, lost in the saddlebags of the horse Mouse Pelt stole. The other horse is wandering the woods or got eaten by the wolves or was found by someone else who needs the gold more than Jon and Sansa. Odden had gathered the weapons dropped to the ground, though, and the coin purse cut from Jon’s belt. If they borrow a horse and ride to the village and sell the steel, they might have enough for two horses and some provisions.

It’s all Jon can think about when Eirryk examines him. Him and Sansa on the road again where they can be themselves. And when the former maester finally straightens to his full height and wipes ointment off his fingers with a rag, Jon looks up at him with hope.

“I think I can remove the stitches tomorrow,” Eirryk says. “Then you can have a bath.”

“And riding? When can we get back on the road?”

“Well... “ Eirryk ruffles his already wild hair. “Foot’s healing nicely. Only sprained, I’d say, so if you keep it wrapped, and you’re careful and mind your broken toe... A week? I’d have to examine you before you leave, but somewhere around a week.”

“Thank you, Maester Eirryk,” Jon says with a relieved smile. “A week, then.”

A week as Will and Alys, husband and wife. Jon can handle a week.


	11. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of jon! pretty sure the next one will be sansa, though

Sansa inhales deeply through lips parted in the beginning of a smile. Before them lie the three pools, warm water cascading from a crack in the mountain into the first. She breathes out her awe and rushes forward, already unfastening her cloak, and Jon hobbles after. After leaning the cane against a pile of rocks, he finds a place to sit where he can keep his eyes on their surroundings and very much off the increasingly bare woman by his side.

“You’re not bathing?”

Jon blinks. While Sansa does hug her dress to her chest to protect her modesty, she’s down to her shift and he’s only ever seen her dressed like that in dimly lit bedrooms and now the sun’s caressing her body and he quite forgets how to speak. As if he could conjure helpful words out of thin air, he gestures uselessly while stammering out fragments of sentences that mean nothing. Bathing. With _her_. Since Odden showed him the pools yesterday, Jon’s thought of little else. Dipping naked into the hot springs with Sansa, who’d offer--no, _insist_ \--on washing his hair for him. She’d sit behind him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands in his hair, her breasts pressed against his back--

_Stop it._

Jon clears his throat and looks away.

“I’m keeping my shift on.” Fabric rustles. Water sloshes. Splashes. Sprays up against his hand and thigh, the linen of his breeches drinking the droplets. “Mm, it’s _wonderful_. You have to get in.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Then take one of the other pools,” Sansa says and he clenches his teeth and keeps his gaze locked on the ground. “We have to get back soon. I need to start supper.”

“ _You’re_ cooking?”

“Maester Eirryk’s staying tonight too. I want to thank him for taking care of you.”

While Jon refrains from giving a teasing retort, he can’t quite control his facial muscles and stares up at the sky to hide his twitching mouth.

“Why are you laughing?”

He gives a shrug. “Are you sure your cooking is a reward and not a punishment?”

Sansa gasps. A splash of water hits Jon's face and he forgets himself, turns to her with laughter bubbling in his chest only for it to catch in his throat. Jon snaps his eyes closed and hides his burning cheeks by wiping the water off his face with his sleeve--and tries wiping the image of her from his mind too, but it’s no use. It’s forever etched in his brain, that image, of Sansa with mischief twinkling in her eyes and waterdrops glittering against her skin and the shift clinging to her chest. It’s thankfully thick enough to hide the color of things he shouldn’t acknowledge, but the _shape_ \--

“Will you hand me the soap?”

Next to the heap of clothes she left on the ground lie a box of soap and two towels. One for her and one for him. He really ought to bathe too, can’t remember the last time he washed his hair properly. He could take one of the other pools, but the rocks framing each pool would keep her out of his view and if someone were to come…

Around them is nothing but the low mountain and old birches swaying in the breeze and mossy ground leading to a field of green sprouts taking over the yellowed grass of yesteryear. Around them is nothing but the whispering wind and the trilling birds and the babbling water leaving the rock. They’re alone--utterly alone--but then he would’ve said the same before Ginger’s friend barreled onto the road and spooked their horses.

“Jon?” Sansa’s turned over on her stomach, chin resting on her arms which she’s crossed over the stony rim of the pool. “What’s wrong? Do you hear something?”

He forces his mouth into a small smile and hands her the soap. “Not a thing.”

“Do I need to hurry up or are you joining me?”

She says it as if their bathing together is the most normal thing in the world. But then, after several weeks on the road where they’ve done everything together, perhaps it is. Without his noticing, they’ve fallen into an easy routine where they can coexist without awkwardness. He can’t remember the last time Sansa asked him to turn around when she dresses or undresses, because he always does unprompted. She’s even helped him wash and he has urinated with her in the room and at night they sleep in the same bed wearing very little. At night they sometimes cuddle. What’s a bath compared to that?

 _Everything._  

But it shouldn’t be. Had she been Arya, would he even have hesitated?

Jon starts peeling off his clothes and Sansa turns around to watch the view. Leaving his smallclothes on, he gingerly lowers himself in the pool until he’s submerged to the waist. The water’s hot and soothing, and he stretches out his arms along the rim and leans back with his eyes closed. It _is_ wonderful and he relaxes for the first time in days, mind going blissfully blank for a moment. In the distance a woodpigeon hoots its mating call and when Sansa absentmindedly echoes the melody, Jon can’t help but chuckle quietly to himself.

_That’s unnecessary, Sansa. You already have me. All you need to do is say the word and you’ll have all of me._

When water laps against his chest, Jon cracks one eye open. Sansa’s moving through the pool and he closes his eye again.

“Move, please. I need to rinse."

Jon shifts to the other side of the pool and, as she rinses, grabs the soap and washes his own hair and by the time he’s the one leaning his head back to catch the stream, he feels more than a little ridiculous. Bathing together truly was nothing, and soon they’re clean, dry, and dressed, and Sansa helps him re-wrap his foot in bandages to keep his ankle from twisting and Jon feels about a thousand stones lighter.

Gods but he’s ridiculous sometimes, isn’t he?

Any day now they’ll leave and ride through a kingdom warm enough that they won’t need to huddle up together or even share sleeping skins. They can sleep like brother and sister. They can sleep like strangers--and those days on the farm where they were husband and wife will seem like a hazy dream.

With a content smile, Jon sucks in lungfuls of fresh air and automatically holds his hand out when a raven swoops down from the sky and lands on his forearm. Jon’s eyes drop to the bird. His smile slips. Before he’s even removed the scroll from Bran’s scrawny bird leg, Jon knows it won’t carry good news because life sure is shit, isn’t it?

Pursing his lips to swallow a curse, he skims the scroll and hands it to Sansa. Her eyes move over the parchment, first quickly, then slowly, taking in each word, her face carefully blank until Bran has flown away. Then she turns to Jon with concern furrowing her brow.

“You want to leave, don’t you?”

“No,” he says to his feet.

“Yes, you do. We’ll leave. Bran can’t stop us. He can’t decide for us.”

Jon squints at the sun standing high in the sky behind her. “The whole world is full of knights and sellswords and Faceless Men paid by Cersei. If Bran says this is the safest place for us, then we _need_ to stay." He sniffs, shrugs, scrapes his cane in the dirt. "And it's not _that_ bad here, is it?”

Her smile is small but genuine. “No, it's not. I quite like it.”

He forces a smile on his own face. "Good. I just hope they want to keep us."

"Yes," she says, already heading toward the trail leading through the woods and back to the farm. "As do I."

 

* * *

 

A lock of hair has escaped Sansa’s braid and now it sways before her eyes as she chops onions into uneven pieces. She blows at it; it flutters before returning to its offending place. Sansa huffs out another frustrated breath, eyes crossing adorably as she glares at the lock. Trying his very best to suppress a smile (and absolutely failing), Jon reaches out and tucks that lock behind her ear.

That _red_ lock.

She looks up at him with a grateful, watery smile, face framed by that red hair, and his heart beats a bit faster. His Sansa. She looks like his Sansa again, her Lady Stark mask dropped weeks ago and miles away and the black dye washed out in the hot springs. 

“Stings your eyes,” she murmurs, returning her attention to the chopping. “Didn’t know that.”

“She’s never chopped onions before.” Fria shakes her head with a hearty chuckle. “Can you imagine?”

Jon eyes Sansa as she adds the onions to the stew cooking at the hearth. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Fria’s been teaching me. It’ll be good. I think. I hope.”

“It’ll be lovely, Alys.” Fria pats her shoulder. “Cooking with love, ain’t you? Means he’ll love it.” She narrows her eyes at Jon. “Right?”

“Aye,” Jon says with an amused grin, preparing himself to lie through his teeth.

Once the stew stands on the table and they’ve all joined hands in prayer, Sansa rises with a nervous smile and serves them all rabbit stew with an unsteady hand and Jon knows lying will be easy. Even if that stew tastes like mud, he’ll eat as much as he’s allowed and he’ll do it beaming just so he can see her beam in return.

Massaging her palm, she remains on her feet and watches him (not the guest of honor, Jon realizes with a thrill) as he dips a spoon into his bowl. He blows on it, brings it to his lips, tastes. It needs more salt, the meat a bit too chewy, the carrots a bit too crunchy, but all in all it’s rather good.

“It’s delicious.”

She twists her hands, chest expanding with a hopeful breath. “Really?”

“Aye, best rabbit stew I’ve ever had.”

“Well”--blushing, she gives his arm a gentle swat--”you’re used to the food at the Wall, so that doesn’t say much.”

“It’s _delicious_.”

He demonstrates this by scooping up another spoonful and eating it with a hum, and Sansa get as close to beaming as he’s seen her in quite some time. She even nudges him fondly with her shoulder as she settles down next to him, and keeps shooting him happy glances as he eats with gusto and suddenly the decent stew does become delicious. It might even be the best thing Jon’s eaten in his entire life, and the warmth from the food and Sansa’s happiness spreads inside him until he’s content and relaxed and--

“The Wall, huh.” Eirryk takes a mouthful of ale before nodding to himself. “Knew you were a deserter.”

“He’s not,” Sansa rushes out. “He’s not a deserter.”

Eirryk steeples his hands, blue eyes penetrating them. “I’m the youngest son of a lord--my lady wouldn’t know my House unless your maester drilled every little House into your head. When I was barely a man grown, I fell in love with a maid. She fell pregnant. My father gave her moontea and me a choice: the Citadel or taking the black. I was naive enough to believe the Night’s Watch was full of heroes--until I got there and realized it was full of thieves, rapists, and misery.”

He drains his tankard and refills it. “I might’ve left before taking my vows, but I stayed long enough to know a brother when I see one. Unlike your lady wife, you’re not castle-bred, not with those table manners. You eat like a man who knows food is fuel not pleasure, that if winter is rough, you might have to eat the dogs or the cats and you will. You’ll eat it without complaining.”

Fria shoots to her feet and starts clearing the table, lips pressed into a pale line, but Eirryk keeps his gaze trained on Jon while waiting for a reaction.

“I was an orphan boy who had nothing.” Jon pulls up the corner of his mouth in a crooked smile. “If everyone who’s known true hunger is a deserter, then we’re all deserters.”

“Those men who attacked you. They’ve plagued us for years, ridden up and down the Kingsroad, stealing anything they can find. And you took out three of them before the wolves showed up--unless your wife’s lying, but I don’t think she is. If you’re just a simple orphan boy, where did you learn how to fight? Hm?” Eirryk pauses to give Jon a chance to reply, but no good lies come to him and his mouth remains shut. “You’re a ranger. That’s why she dyed her hair black and you murmur a different name when you’re sleeping. I might've left my chain and robe behind, but I didn’t leave my wits. Odden and Fria are good folk and if they’re harboring a deserter, they deserve to know.”

“Why did you?” Jon asks, narrowing his eyes with a sneer. “Leave. You want to know my life’s story without offering yours? Bit rude. Was it the drink? You think you know things, that you see clearly, but how well can a man see when his mind is swimming in ale?”

“I drink for the same reason why I’m no longer a maester.”

“A woman.”

“A woman. Another maid. I have a type, it seems.” Eirryk’s lips curve in a sad smile. “She scrubbed the floors of the castle where I was posted. We fell in love, she fell with child, and for the second time in my life I had a choice.” He shrugs, swirling the ale in his tankard before bringing it to his lips. “Wasn’t a hard choice.”

“Where is she now?” Sansa asks.

“I lost her, and our children. We had three of them.” The sharp glint leaves his eyes when he smiles gently at her and then, as if he sees himself in this lady who ran away from home to be with a lowborn, his words are for Sansa alone. “We were poor and it was hard, it truly was. But we were happy and I don’t regret my choice. I’ve never regretted it. Not even when the wars took all of them.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“So am I.” Eirryk empties his tankard and fills it with more ale before Fria snatches the pitcher from him. “Every day, I’m sorry--and yet I don’t regret it.”

“Will’s not a deserter.” Sansa’s voice is almost meek, her eyes wide and innocent, and she looks at Jon as if seeking his permission and he gives it with a nod. “But you’re right about the Wall. After my father died in the war, my uncle sold me to a sellsword who’d gotten himself knighted. I learned he aimed to kill my brother, take our keep and, as soon as I’d given him an heir, kill me too. But I had another brother. Sam.”

She ducks her head with a shy smile, as if remembering happier times. “He was a ranger at the Wall and I thought he could protect me. So the night before the wedding I ran away, but once I reached the Wall…”

She emits a small, trembling breath and turns to Jon, hands coming to cup his cheeks. Faintly, he registers the smell of cooking and herbs, and thinks he should cling to that, let that scent ground him, for her eyes shine at him the way he’s always dreamed for them to shine. As if she loves him--truly _loves_ him--and her hair is red again, red like copper, red like fire, the braid resting on her shoulder like when they traveled the North together. Like when it first hit him that he loved her--and it hits him now too, harder than ever before, that he’ll never love anyone the way he loves her.

“I didn’t find my brother,” she whispers. “I found love.”

Jon’s stomach flips, swoops, flutters. His shallow breathing has left his mouth dry and yet he’s so entranced he can’t even swallow. He can only gaze into Sansa’s eyes, blue and adoring and... _Alys’_. Those are Alys’ eyes. It only takes a flash of fear widening them for him to remember that they’re only pretending. She must’ve seen it, Jon’s love instead of Will’s, and Jon presses his lips together and freezes in her hands, while shame burns him from the inside.

“My brother was dead.” As if she’s an experienced performer in a mummer’s farce, tears spring easily to her eyes. “A wildling killed him.”

She releases Jon’s face and looks at Eirryk instead, leaving Jon to incinerate in peace. Staring into the tabletop, he just barely understands her flow of perfect lies seasoned with a pinch of truth. Sam and Will had been close. Will promised to protect her, said it was his duty, or Sam’s ghost would come back and haunt him. Then the Wall fell, the war for the dawn came, and the Night’s Watch disbanded.

“Will’s not a deserter,” Sansa says, a hand on his arm, “because there’s no Night's Watch anymore. There’s no one who cares. Except my intended.”

She pauses, her fingers squeezing Jon’s forearm, as if she’s looking for him to tie together the tapestry she’s woven before it unravels, and he pats her hand and reaches deep inside himself for the part that enjoyed this game once, when there was nothing but him and her and the road.

“He’ll kill me.” Will winds his arm around his wife, tucking her close. “If he finds us. He’ll kill me and he’ll drag her back and marry her. That’s why we’re hiding.”

“We’re so sorry for lying. If that means you want us out, we’ll be out. We're dangerous guests to have.”

Sansa’s words. Sansa practically inviting them to throw her and Jon out--and she’s doing it for him, he knows. She likes it here. That wasn’t a lie. She’s smiled more in only a few days than during all of winter. At home Sansa was ever frost-bitten, but at the farm she’s blooming along with spring.

“No need for apologies, sweetling.” Fria wipes her hands on the apron around her waist and sits down at the table. “It’s not easy, is it? Knowing who to trust.”

“I can work,” Jon says. “Foot’s healing well. Alys can work too. And we can pay. We have gold and--”

“Keep your gold.” Fria’s friendly smile crinkles her weathered face. “Wouldn’t say no to an extra hand, though, cos we’re not throwing out a lovely young couple who needs our help. Are we, Odd? What kind of people would we be if we didn’t try to protect m’lady from that awful man?”

“Please,” Alys says, “no need for titles. Really.”

“No… Suppose one shouldn’t get into the habit, considering.” Fria nods slowly to herself. “Good! That’s decided, then. You’re staying, you are. Alys and Will. That’s all you are to us.” Fria's eyes go round, hand pressed to her chest. "Oh, gods. I just made a lady cook me supper!"

Then she breaks out laughing and Alys gives Will another loving smile and this is where he would kiss her, isn’t it? It’s what his instincts tells him, his foolish heart. A soft kiss on the lips. But they decided: not unless they have to. So Will only smiles back at her.

No. Not Will. _Jon_ does.

He’s not like her, hasn’t spent his formative years learning how to pretend to love someone he doesn’t. Hasn’t learned how to cry and smile and lie on command. All Jon can do to sell the ruse is allowing his true feelings to shine through, no matter how much it hurts. All Jon can do is grabbing the pitcher of ale Fria kept from Eirryk and drinking himself into a fuzzy state and pretend to be happy while he shares whatever anecdotes from the Wall he dares.

 

Once he and Sansa retire, the moment the door closes behind them, he drops his jovial mask along with his clothes and curls up under the blankets in only his smallclothes. The world spins and spins and he closes his eyes and listens to her pottering around. The rustle of linen and wool. The strokes of a hairbrush. The scrape of clay against wood. She placed the flowers he gave her in a large jug on her nightstand, and he imagines her adjusting it, smelling the flowers, smiling at them. Smiling at the memory of receiving them and Jon smiles too and sinks into a relaxed state, his thoughts quieting and the world falling away...

A warm hand on his chest pulls him from sleep. A warm soft hand over his scar and then her body comes closer--a body he saw all too much of today. The image of her in the pool returns to him, only now the shift is gone and her entrancing smile holds a thousand indecent promises and a part of him better left forgotten makes itself known. 

_Stop it._

Sansa hums and burrows her nose in the crook of his neck and he can’t help but picture her naked body wrapped around his in that pool, her lips kissing droplets from his skin, his lips kissing droplets from hers. That part of him grows harder. Jon balls his hands into fists.

“You really need that still? Really? I’m not dying anymore, am I.”

Sansa stiffens. He hears her swallow. Then she rolls away from him and Jon rolls over on his side, back to her, and drowns out his conscience with thoughts about everything horrible and nasty and cold until he falls asleep softer than the pillow beneath his head. 

That image of her haunts his dreams, though. _She_ does, watching him with hooded eyes while she sings her mating call and he wakes up the next morning hard as sin. Hard and with his right hand full of supple flesh and his cock pressing against something warm and his mouth slanted over sweet-smelling skin and--

His arms are empty. Someone’s panting, scrambling, crashing. Jon opens his eyes, blinks as he looks around the sunlit room to understand.

She’s cowering in a corner, the jug shattered on the floor, shards and flowers scattered before her feet. Her breaths come in bursts and she’s paler than a winter sky and her arms are wrapped around her body like a shield.

"Sansa?"

She jolts and when her eyes meet his there's nothing in them but fear.

Jon’s stomach turns and he flees the bedroom and out into the dewy morning, damp grass sliding beneath his feet all the way to the fat oak where he falls to his knees and hurls and hurls until he’s empty.


	12. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of past abuse

She’s running, stumbling, falling, hounds nipping at her heels and barking in her ears and slobbering all over her throat as they wait for their master’s command. Theon’s fingers snap around her wrist and yank her to her feet. _I’ve seen what his hounds do to a person._ But the hounds won’t hurt her, she knows, only their master will. His fists, his knife, his-- He grabs her from behind and squeezes the breath from her lungs and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her useless arms which have neither the strength or skill to fight back. It’s over. He’ll drag her back to his keep and hurt her all over again until she gives him the heir he so desperately needs so he can finally just--

Sansa wakes with a gasp. Her body’s weighed down. Trapped. She scrambles off the bed and presses her back against the wall, gaze flitting around the strange room. A booming noise fills her ears and pinpricks dance before her eyes and she can’t make sense of anything. She’s not in the room that became her prison cell. Where is she? Where’s Theon? Where’s--

Jon. Oh, it’s just _Jon_. She closes her eyes and exhales her relief and when she opens them again the room’s empty.

“Jon?”

She darts forward. A sharp pain stabs her foot. She yelps, hops to the bed, examines the sole. The shard just barely broke the skin, the tiniest smudge of red coloring the cut. Something wet creeps down her chest from her collarbone. Jon drooling on her neck, snoring in her ear. Not the hounds. She gives another exhale of relief, wipes off the drool and grips the edge of the bed with both hands as her racing pulse slows down.

On the floor lies a mess of broken shards and daffodils in white and yellow. The daffodils Jon gave her--or was it Will? Will loves Alys while Jon... ( _You really need that still? Really? I’m not dying anymore, am I?)_ Sansa rubs her arms. It’s colder this morning. A glance out the window tells her it’s rained during the night. She should clean up the mess. No. She needs to dress first. She can’t leave the room to find a broom and rag undressed. Jon left the room undressed. His scars. She needs to get dressed and then take Jon’s clothes to him. And his cane. Even though he hates it, he needs his cane. Even though he hates it, he still uses it because she wants him to use it. (Because Alys wants Will to use it.)

First she needs to clean up the mess, though. Nodding to herself, Sansa tucks her hair behind her ears and drops to the floor to pick up the broken pieces.

The door creaks. “I’ll do that.”

Jon closes the door behind him and pulls on a tunic; she sinks back on the bed and watches his large hands gingerly pick up all the shards and lay the flowers on the nightstand. He wipes up the spilled water. Brushes the floor with a broom for good measure. Finds a new jug, pauses with his hands full of flowers, the stems hovering over the makeshift vase.

“Do you want me to throw them out?”

Sansa shakes her head, but Jon’s looking at the bouquet instead of her.

“No,” she says, her voice raw and frail. She clears her throat. “I’d like to keep them.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, head hanging like a wilted flower. “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” She turns to look at the window, at the raindrops still clinging to the glass that must’ve cost the farmers half a fortune. “I want some fresh air.”

 

* * *

 

The world is so quiet after rain and in the silence every drop of water falling from a branch shakes the earth. The snap of a twig beneath her foot sounds like lightning cracking the sky. Their breaths could drown out a storm. Out here the colors are muted, the greens and browns and blues shrouded in the milky veil of mist. A mist that seeps through her cloak and chills her body.

Shivering, Sansa wraps the ends of the cloak around her arms and tugs it more tightly around herself. Jon stops. She stops too, watching his unmoving legs as if they’ll tell her the reason. The noise of Pate chattering as he and Odden mend the chicken coop fence still reaches them, but she can’t make out any words. Then the weight of Jon’s cloak lands on her shoulders. She should remember her courtesies, she should thank him and smile, but she keeps her eyes on the path and leads him deeper into the woods while her body warms rapidly under his cloak. It’s the wool. A winter cloak in spring would leave any northerner sweating.

Then the echoes of Pate’s voice fade and now there’s only her and Jon and tall pines and mossy roots and a starling singing far away. She glances at his body, how the tunic falls from his shoulders, over his strong chest and flat stomach. A body that only moments ago was curled around hers. ( _You really need that still?)_ She looks away. Clears her throat. Smooths out her skirts, turns back to him with her chin held high and the corners of her mouth slightly upturned.

“I’m sorry. For my reaction. I overreacted.”

Before the attack he was sunkissed. Now he’s paled into the color of the mist surrounding them while his eyes are so black they look like obsidian, hard and gleaming.

“What is it?”

Jon’s eyebrows tug together. “Why are you apo--”

A fat raindrop lands on her nose. Jon’s eyes move from her face and up to the sky. More drops land in her hair, in his, in the space between them.

“We should get back,” he says, turning around.

“We need to talk and we can’t talk properly there.”

“We can’t stand out here in the rain, either. You’ll get sick.”

“ _I’ll_ get sick?”

She nods at his cloakless body, at the already rain-dappled tunic, but Jon’s hobbling off to find shelter and she trails after with the hood of the cloak pulled up over her head. The path takes them to a hovel abandoned so long ago vines climb up the low walls to join the thick mat of moss covering the roof. Door gone, the entrance gapes open: a black maw leading into the unknown. Jon heads in first, banging the cane against the walls to scare off any critters lurking therein. Wringing her hands, Sansa waits until his head pops out and nods at her to enter.

The ceiling is low enough that she needs to bend her neck slightly, and the scant light streaming in from the entrance does little to illuminate the place. She sees nothing but black. At least it’s warm, the air damp and smelling of grass and soil. Like the glass gardens. And it’s even more quiet than the woods, the patter of rain cushioned by the foliage. It doesn’t cushion the rasp of her thumb massaging her palm, though, and she clasps her hands to stop herself from fidgeting.

“I’m sorry for--

“Sansa.” He heaves a sigh. “You have nothing to apologize for. It was me. I’m the one who… What I did was unforgivable. If you don’t want to see me ever again I wouldn’t blame you. And if you want me to leave, I’ll figure something out. I’ll find a--”

“Leave? For _that_? You’d leave me for that? That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Dramatic! I-I _touched_ you.”

“So? You touch me every day.”

“Not… _there_.”

“You touch my arm all the time.”

“Your _arm_? What--” Jon expels a breath, then eases out the next, slow and steady. “What happened? Exactly.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I was asleep! I don’t know. It happened so fast.”

“I was dreaming. About Ramsay. I often do. Well, rarely anymore but...”

“Alys’ story.”

“Yes. Suppose it triggered something. He was chasing me and I was running and then I woke up and I could feel the weight of a body over mine and a hand around my arm, right where he used to…” She slides her hand up her arm, rubs the spot still haunted by Ramsay’s grip. “ He used to grab me, hold me down. I was always bruised. And you were drooling on my neck”--she wipes her neck as if his saliva still stuck to her skin--”and I thought it was the hounds.”

She huffs out a laugh and shakes her head at herself, shedding the last remnants of this morning’s fear. “I’m sorry. I thought you were Ramsay and I panicked.”

“But I was…” Jon’s feet move over the trampled dirt floor. “My, uh, I was… Wasn’t I?”

With this lack of light he couldn’t possibly tell what color cheek she has and yet she ducks her head when she realizes at what he’s hinting. “Yes. But what man isn’t in the morning? I hear it’s quite common.”

“What man isn’t…” He exhales sharply. “Still doesn’t make it right. You should never have felt that. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“But you weren’t awake,” she says, blood pulsing in her body. “Were you?”

“Of course not! I would _never_ do that to you--but it shouldn’t matter! Stop rationalizing this! Stop pretending it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. I _hurt_ you.”

“You didn’t hurt me. I overreact--”

“No! This is not your fault. You were not overreacting. What happened was _my_ fault and I should never have put you in a position where it was even possible in the first place!”

As he talked, he stepped closer and closer and now her nose fills with the scent of warm, wet skin. Of Jon. She draws in a trembling breath, a lungful of that scent. Hears him take another step and another. But then the air around her feels colder and she knows he backed away.

“I will sleep on the floor from now on. I might not have touched you this time but what if it happens again?"

“Where did…” Her voice trails off in a whisper. She licks her lips and tries again. “Where did you think you touched me?”

“Your breast!”

Sansa’s mouth falls open and the heat returns to her cheeks, stomach tight and hollow all at once as if it can’t decide whether it needs food or to make water.

“You wouldn’t do that,” she murmurs. _Would you?_

“No, I wouldn’t. But I was asleep and dreaming and--” He swallows. “I dreamed I was with a woman.”

“Oh. Well, you didn’t. Touch me that way.” She hugs her arms around her body. Lets them drop. Straightens herself as best she can with that stupid ceiling pressing into her head. “We should’ve known something like this would happen. The way we’ve been… We’ve grown comfortable with each other’s bodies.”

_(You really need that still? Really?)_

Her hands find one another again, thumb sneaking in to soothe her palm, and she tucks them into her sleeves instead. She can still smell him, his cloak a hug around her body. She can still feel him, how he held her so close, pressed into her, all hard and-- Fear strikes her like lightning, a flash of heat in her belly that rips a shaky little breath from her throat. Crossing her legs beneath her skirts, she suppresses the instinct telling her to... do _something_. Something to change this situation, to run far far away from this conversation. But she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She is a woman grown and not afraid. She does not flee uncomfortable situations; she faces them head-on.

When she speaks again, her voice is clear and strong: “What we’ve been doing, Jon, could easily become a habit. I’m not suggesting we’ll fall in love if we keep pretending to be in love--that would be absurd--but we do risk erasing certain boundaries. We need new rules. Clearer boundaries. A first step could be no more physical contact in the bedroom.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping in the bed anymore, so… Don’t have to worry about that.”

“Perhaps we should tell them the truth. We wouldn’t have to pretend at all.”

“After the way we’ve been behaving? After the tale you told last night? How do you think that would go?”

There’s a patronizing lilt in his voice, a big brother’s mocking, as if he’s shaking his head at her getting lost in stupid games she should’ve outgrown years ago. Games she’s not played since she was a little girl and begged Robb and Theon to join her and Jeyne and Beth in the godswood for monsters-and-maidens or come-into-my-castle. The old Sansa whose head was in the clouds, whose imagination was too wild, so wild it possessed her, transformed her into whatever lady from a song she was playing. That imagination possessed her last night too and for a few heartbeats Sansa _was_ Alys. For a few heartbeats she _loved_ Will. She loved him with all her heart. She loved him so completely it frightened her more than any monster ever could.

_(You really need that still?)_

She can’t hear the rain anymore, can’t even hear his breathing (can hear her heart beating all too well). The heat is unbearable. The sun’s baking the hovel for days and days has trapped the heat in there and she’s boiling under the wool, under the suffocating silence.

“We made them too affectionate,” she says. “It was stupid. We didn’t know we’d end up trapped like this, where we have to pretend every day, but still… It was stupid.”

“It’s my fault. I should never have agreed to pretending we’re… I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m so sorry for touching you every day and making you feel uncomfortable and--”

“You didn’t. I’ve enjoyed it.”

She stifles a gasp, fingers pressed to her lips. By now her eyes have adjusted to the lack of light and she can make out his silhouette, how he fits so snugly between ceiling and floor. But she can’t see his face. He’s a shadow, quiet and still and dark, waiting for more words, for an explanation, for a clarification for surely she didn't mean it like _that_ \--and she finds herself speaking, confessing things the darkness will swallow and the hovel will trap along with the heat so that she can walk out into the rain, a little lighter, a little freer.

“I didn’t think I needed it anymore. Comfort. I thought I’d made myself so hard I’d never need it again. But I suppose I do need it. Everyone does. Don’t they?”

She waits for a reply that doesn’t come, but she thinks she sees him give a shrug. Perhaps not, then. Perhaps it’s only her who hungers for affection to erase the memories of cruel and greedy hands pawing at her body.

“I’ve been scared--it’s true--but not of you. Never of you, Jon. You make me feel safe. Being close to you makes me feel safe. You’d never hurt me. I know you’d never--”

“Do what I did?”

“You were asleep. It’s not as if you _want_ me.” _Do you?_ “That would be…”

“Aye.” Jon exhales loudly, as if he could huff away the nasty implication. “That would be.”

“We’re not Will and Alys. We’re not married. We’re not in love. But we’re not brother and sister either and this? It’s not appropriate. If septa Mordane saw me now, she’d drag me out by the ear and give me a rapping.”

“You want us to stop, then?”

“I'm not sure. Do you?”

For a beat he says nothing, then, “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“If we change Fria’s going to wonder and she’ll want to meddle.”

“Aye, she would.”

“Perhaps it’s easier to just let Will and Alys be Will and Alys?”

“There’s nothing easy about this.” He sighs and she hears him rub his hands over his beard or his hair. “But you’re right. It's easier to stick to an old lie than making up a new one. It’s stopped raining.”

He pushes past her and walks out into sunlight dampened by the overcast sky.

She was right, then. He doesn't need it, nor has he enjoyed it. Not one bit. He’s tolerated her snuggling close at night. He’s tolerated her hand on his chest, her nose against his neck, because he pities her. He’s suffered through evenings of being Will and Alys because he sees it as his duty to protect her. He was always the one who made sure there was an appropriate distance between them as they curled up at night until _she_ got too cold, until _she_ got too scared, until she--

( _You really need that still? Really? I’m not dying anymore, am I?)_

As she leaves the hovel and the words whispered in the dark, she doesn’t feel a little lighter after all. She doesn't feel a little freer. The confession creeps after her, clings to her skirts like a spoiled child, and follows her all the way back to the farm.


	13. Sansa

Staring into a swirl of chunks and creamy stew, Sansa stirs the pot Fria had to abandon. A neighbor stopped by with news, and now they stand on the porch, talking in voices muffled by the door. Soon more voices join them. The men washing off the stink of barn and work. Fria doesn’t allow dirty hands at her table and keeps a basin and a box of soap by the door.

Since the hovel, Jon hasn’t said a word to Sansa nor has she said a word to him. Not that they’ve spent much time together: he’s been well enough to follow Odden around and learn his chores while Sansa’s stayed indoors with hers. She sets the table, lifts down hole-bread from the pole, pours a pitcher of ale from the cask, removes her apron and hangs it on a nail by the hearth. Sits down. Waits.

Jon comes first. Takes his seat next to her. When they first came to the farm, Sansa found the scent of the soft, gray soap Fria makes unpleasant, too unlike the fragrant hard white soap they keep at Winterfell. By now she finds it comforting, pleasant even, and breathes in a little deeper. The silence, however… Nothing pleasant about that.

She licks her lips to change that when the others enter the room. Sighing and shaking her head, Fria serves the food before sitting down. Odden’s head is hanging, his mouth a sad curve, and even the usually jovial Pate stares glumly at his bowl. Sansa should be worried, she supposes. Whatever news the neighbor brought can’t have been good, but a part of her feels nothing but relief. In a room filled with nothing but the crackle of the hearth and scrapes of wooden spoons in wooden bowls, the tension between her and Jon won’t be noticeable.

She’s almost finished eating when Odden is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Said they have pups.”

Fria takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as she breathes out. “I heard.”

“It’s time. A farm needs a dog, it does.”

She purses her lips, a million wrinkles fanning out from her mouth. “We’ll take a look.”

Then silence returns and stays for the rest of supper. Not until the men have left to do the last stretch of work before bedtime and Sansa and Fria sit with their knitting in front of the hearth, does Fria speak.

“Dake’s dead. A fever took him.”

“Dake... The wheelwright?”

"That's the one. The funeral feast’s in a few days. Want my ale, they do. We’ll be away for the whole day. Think we’ll take Pate with us. He usually stays here but…” Fria turns her work and starts purling her way across the needle. “Did you and Will have a fight?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Oh, come now. I’m an old woman, ain’t I? You think I don’t know what a lover’s quarrel looks like?”

“It’s nothing serious.”

Her small brown eyes narrow as she chews on her question before spitting it out. “When your Will’s angry, what’s he like?”

“He’s just broods. Won’t say a word if he can help it.”

“Oh, good. Sounds like my Odd, that. But it’s a rare thing, ain’t it? My papa… My mother, me and my sisters were black and blue more often than not. So I made sure before I made my choice. A good man or no man.”

Sansa smiles warmly at the old woman. A sentiment she agrees with--and lives by, really. Never again. She’d rather stay unwed for the rest of her life.

“But you could do with some time alone, eh? Can’t be easy, this, two newly weds trapped in a farm with three strangers. And you, used to a castle and all.”

“It’s wonderful here. We’re very grateful for--”

“Yes, yes.” Fria rolls her sparkling eyes. “No need for that. We’ll take Pate with us, give you some time to yourselves.”

Sansa accepts the offer with a smile. It would be good, wouldn’t it? A whole day without pretending. A whole day of speaking freely, acting freely. Perhaps they could even spend it apart. Jon hasn’t gotten alone time in ages.

 

Later, when they retire to the bedroom, she considers telling him the news, but as he hauls down a pillow and a blanket to the floor for a makeshift bed, he gives her neither a word nor a look. So she lies down in silence too, curled up on her side with her back to him. The daffodils and their cheerful color mock her from their jug. They weren’t for her, were they. A pretend gift for a pretend wife.

She glares at the daffodils until her eyes ache, until Jon snores, until she slips into a fitful sleep. And in the morning, after Jon’s dressed and headed outside to help Odden, she gathers them in her arms and throws them out.

 

* * *

 

“Are you thinking about getting a dog?” Sansa asks, kneeling by a bed of tender spring greens she examines with untrained eyes.

“Odd wants one but… We had a dog. Suppose I’m not ready to replace her.”

“I’m sorry.” Ghosting her fingers over the leaves, Sansa remembers a pretty direwolf with ribbons in her fur. “A dog is never replaceable.”

“No, it’s not. But Dake’s wife’s not able to keep them all, she’s not. So I’ll have a look. Won’t pick one. But I’ll have a look. Compromise is important in a marriage, Alys. Remember that.”

“I will. What’s a funeral feast like?”

Fria puts down her basket and straightens her back with a groan. “Well, we mourn and we celebrate. Dake’s brother owns the inn so I reckon it’s where we’re headed once Dake’s in the ground. Then we share our stories over ale and food, don’t we? We dance, laugh, cry. You can expect us home late--or should I say early? Ha!--and we’ll be in our cups. Of that you can be sure.” 

“That sounds like an appropriate way to send off a loved one.” Sansa pinches off a leaf and rubs it between her fingers, breaths in the scent, and tries not to think about a river whose waters flow into Fria and Odden’s stream. “I’m used to more somber traditions.”

“You highborns always need to make such a grand affair of everything.” Fria clears her throat and dips in one of the worst curtsies Sansa’s ever seen. “If m’lady don’t mind me saying.”

“Not at all.” Sansa gives her a smile and points at the plants she was examining. “Are these right?”

“No, that’s chickweed but take those too. Eirryk will want them. Good for salves and such. Oh!” Fria grabs the basket and darts forward. “Wood leek! Come, look at these, Alys. They’ll be good for your cooking--just don’t pick too many. They’re sensitive buggers, they are. Pick too many and we won’t see any next spring. And sweet wood violets! Look for violets.”

“For the pie?”

Fria laughs as if Sansa suggested they use knitting needles to pitch hay. “No, for the cakes. You’ll see.”

As they fill their baskets to the brim with bear garlic and dandelions and nettles Sansa picks with gloved hands while Fria plucks them with practiced bare fingers, the old woman prattles on about her marriage, about all the tricks she’s learned to keep her husband happy. How they resolve their fights and give each other room to breathe and heed one another’s moods. Odden struggles with too much noise; Fria struggles with her patience. Odden wants everything done right and done right away; Fria enjoys taking her time and following her inspiration.

“But it works, different as we are.” Basket bouncing against her hip as she leads Sansa back to the farm, Fria delivers one of her frequent grins. “And remember this, Alys, if all else fails, there are two things that always work: food and fucking.”

Fria halts, eyes round as eggs. Then she sucks in a sharp breath and mumbles out an apology, looking so scandalized at her own dirty mouth spilling such a word in front of a highborn lady that Sansa can’t help but laugh. That pulls Fria along and soon they giggle together like two little girls, the echoes of their laughter rolling out over the farm. By the barn stands Jon, leaning over a pitchfork, and he watches them exiting the woods with a smile of his own spread across his face. 

“Oh, he’s a looker, your Will.” Fria nudges Sansa in the side. “What a handsome lad.” 

“I know. I couldn’t stop staring at him when I came to Castle Black.”

When she hears her own words, Sansa’s stomach does an odd little lurch. But it’s true, isn’t it? She couldn’t stop staring. That’s how happy she was to be with family again. Yes, that’s right. And when he returned from Dragonstone and she couldn’t stop staring then either, it was only because she needed to read him, to understand his relationship with Daenerys. To protect the North. To protect Jon too. Sansa knew instantly something wasn’t right between them. That’s why watching them interacting, how Daenerys clung to him, left Sansa so uncomfortable.

...and she’s staring at him now, she realizes. She shakes herself out of her thoughts to make Alys bat her lashes at Will and give a cute wave. He nods and returns to his work.

Well, _Jon_ does. The only thing he said this morning before she and Fria left was to be careful--and for the rest of the day, he only utters the most perfunctory things while Fria watches them with the kind of smile Sansa remembers from whenever her mother watched young lovers bicker. The patient, fond (and almost condescending) smile of someone whose own marriage had weathered thunderstorms and hurricanes and found a lover’s quarrel nothing but a breeze.

Once they retire for the night, Jon’s head snaps to the nightstand and its lack of flowers, but he doesn’t ask Sansa about it and when she tells him they wilted, he only mutters a _goodnight_ before curling up on the floor, and for the second night in a row, she lies awake for what must be hours. By now she’s used to him next to her, his smell, his warmth, his snores. The way the mattress moves when he does. And knowing too that he has to sleep on a hard, cold floor just to avoid her…

She never should’ve told him she enjoyed it, the little touches they’d started to share. The darkness fooled her into confessing, but nothing good ever comes from whispering truths in the dark.

 

* * *

 

Even though she knows he won’t, all day she waits for him to give her new flowers, to replace the ones she claimed were wilted. Even though she knew he wouldn’t, she still goes to bed disappointed, and that night she gets even fewer hours of sleep than the night before. 

When morning comes, she finds herself having rolled over to Jon’s side, her hand hanging over the edge of the bed as though she was desperate for him even in sleep. He’s already up, dressed and all, folding up his blanket which he places with the pillow at the end of the bed. His eyes skirt up her body, meet hers, and his lips quirk in a quick smile. Then he murmurs a _good morning_ and leaves.

That’s a good start, at least--his first real smile as himself since the hovel--on the day Fria expects her to solve the pretend issues between Alys and Will with a romantic day all to themselves when that’s the last thing Jon would want.

With a groan, Sansa pulls the blanket over her head and indulges in another moment of rest.

 

* * *

 

All day, she keeps to her chores while Jon keeps to his. Their paths only cross once, when he comes for a cup of water after she just fed the chickens. And she seeks him out once, when she brings him bread, slices of ham, and a jug of ale for a midday meal while she eats her meal in the quiet of the kitchen. He needs this, time alone to brood, time away from her--and absence does make the heart grow fonder. She’s learned that lesson well in her years away from home. She learned it better still when he left her for Dragonstone. And she’s reminded of it all over again now that she’s without her younger siblings and Ghost and Sam and Gilly and little Sam and all the people she loves most in the world.

Not until the sky begins to darken does she call Jon back to the house. By then she’s lit the candles and set the table with pie and ale and herb bread still hot from the oven, even decorated it with spring flowers as if this were the Great Hall and she was inviting Jon to a feast. She almost decorated her hair with flowers too, some girlish instinct lingering within the sensible woman she’s become, but that would’ve made this a bit too romantic--and this isn’t romance.

“It’s an apology,” she tells Jon and his gaping face once he’s seated at the table and she starts plating his food. “For my… And a thank you. For everything.”

“You made this yourself?” He bows his head over the steaming hot slice of pie and breathes in deeply. “It’s kidney pie.”

“No pease, I’m afraid, but it has onions. And I browned the butter. Arya once told me it makes it better.”

Jon’s eyes move slowly up to hers. “If there are any fingers in here…”

Sansa grins. “No fingers. Just a few spring greens we foraged yesterday. Fria swears it’ll be as good as the pease.”

When Jon returns that smile, eyes crinkled and glittering, a thrill shoots through Sansa and she holds her breath and waits for his reaction as he picks up the fork.

Jon’s eyes widen. His mouth drops open. The corners of them lifting, just a bit. “This is really good, Sansa.”

“You sound surprised. Was my rabbit stew that bad?”

“No. I liked it. Perhaps not as much as I claimed”--he offers a smirk when she gasps at him--”but this? It’s _really_ good.”

“As good as old Nan’s?”

“Better.”

He blinks softly at her and refills his fork--and she sits back, a bit taller, and entirely forgets her own slice while she watches him eat and eat. When he first started wearing the cloak she sewed him, a feeling much like this one filled her chest. A feeling that still returns every so often when she sees him, all regal and strong, with her work on his shoulders. Pride, yes, she doesn’t deny that, but there’s something else too. Something _more_. Something she’s yet been able to define. All she knows is that it makes her feel as content as a cat curled up in a spot of sunlight.

Once the food is cleared, she brings out blankets and a lantern to the porch, where they sit together on Odden’s favorite bench and drink ale and nibble on oatcakes sweetened with honey and violets.

“Did you bake these too?” he asks as he starts his second oatcake while she’s still taking prim bites of her own. “You’re getting good at this. I’m impressed.”

Sansa beams. “I’ve been busy all day.”

“So that’s why I’ve barely seen you.”

“Thought you needed some time alone.”

Jon brushes the crumbs off his fingers and leans back against the wall. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“I’m the one who should thank you. I’ve trapped you here, all because Cersei wants me dead. You should be at home, ruling.”

“So should you.”

“I didn’t want more people to die just to protect me. Not after the battle. I saw so many people die that night, Jon. Men, women, children… People I’d fed and clothed and--” She exhales, shaking her head. “I didn’t want more people to die.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want this either. You’re stuck here, because of me.”

“I’ve promised to protect you and--”

“But that was before. When it was only you and me. But now I have guards and sworn swords--and it’s not as if Father’s ghost will come back and murder you. There’s no such thing as ghosts. There’s nothing after death. You said it yourself. And I’m not going to hold you to that promise”

“I _want_ to protect you.”

Jon’s voice is so hoarse, so sincere, but instead of looking at her, he’s staring at his hands resting palm-up on his thighs. Strong hands which have protected her many times by now (and yet are so gentle when they touch her).

“I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

Sansa slips her hand into the open cradle of his and gives it a squeeze to remind him of something he already knows, something she already confessed when he was injured. And Jon still stares at his hand--their hands--while she gazes at the elegant slope of his nose, how his lashes cast long shadows on his pale cheeks, how his soft lips open when he breathes out her name.

Then his eyebrows knit together and he lifts his head to look at her and in his eyes she finds another feeling she cannot define, one that sneaks into her chest and squeezes her heart and whirls in her stomach.

“Can I have another oatcake?”

A breath leaves her in a huffy little laugh; she shakes her head at him. “You’re insatiable.”

“Yeah”--he releases her to drag his hand over his beard--”that I am.”

“All right. One. I’m saving the rest for tomorrow. The others deserve some too.”

“When will they be back?” 

“I don’t know. Late. Possibly even early morning. Their funeral feasts are a bit different than what we’re used to.”

“Are we? Used to it. Not been much of that for us, has it? Funerals. None for Father or Robb or uncle Benjen--”

“Or Mother.”

While the days are warm now, so warm the men work in tunics and vests unless it rains, the nights still carry an icy chill, and Sansa wraps herself more tightly in her blanket as she looks up at the black sky. A million stars to shine down on them. On them and on the stream flowing close enough she imagines she hears its water rushing. Water it gets from the river in which the Freys threw her mother’s body.

“One evening,” Sansa says in a voice sounding so distant it’s as if someone else pushes air through her throat and moves her lips to form sounds, while she listens from half a mile away, “Bran decided to look. We thought we wanted to know, Arya and I, and Bran… He was so cold when he came back home. Distant. He told us everything. What they did to her, what they did to Robb. To Talisa and the baby. Mother died last. She died thinking she’d lost everything. Her husband, her little girls, her little boys. And the last thing she saw before she died was--”

A lump in Sansa’s throat strangles the rest of that sentence and she squeezes her eyes shut to block out the images Bran’s words painted. Images that have never really left her and never really will. She licks her lips and swallows down that lump with the help of ale.

“She’ll never know,” she whispers. “She’ll never know that Bran and Arya and I are alive, that we’re safe, that we’re _home_. And she’ll never know about you. That Father never betrayed her. It’s not fair. It’s not.” She turns to Jon, who looks blurry through her watery lens. “Is there really nothing after death?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you said…”

“I don’t remember anything. But maybe you don’t remember. Maybe the gods don’t let you remember.”

Sansa releases a trembling breath, wiping a tear off her cheek. “You really think so?”

“Aye, I do. She knows. Wherever she is, she knows. And she’s proud, of all of you.”

He’s lying, Sansa knows that, but sometimes lies are the sweetest things and she feels herself lean into him, grateful and in need of comfort--only to recoil when she remembers their unspoken rule: no touching when they’re alone. No touching when they’re Jon and Sansa.

“Do you need a hug?”

She ducks her head, smoothing out wrinkles her skirts don’t have. She’s already broken the rule once tonight when she held his hand; once will have to be enough. “I don’t need a hug. I’m all right.”

Jon spreads out his arms. “Well, do you _want_ one?”

A gentle smile softens his features, warms his eyes, and his embrace looks more inviting than a hot bath after weeks on the road--and Sansa finds herself sinking into his arms after all. He wraps them around her and holds her so, so close, and she wraps her arms around him in return and rests her temple against his shoulder and just _sits_.

“There’s nothing wrong with needing a hug, Sansa.”

“I know. I just never realized just how much I need it.” She snuggles closer, feels his arms tightening around her in response. “How much I missed it.”

Jon’s quiet for enough breaths she’s about to pull away when he clears his throat and says, “Suppose I do too. Need it.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“I don’t. I don’t hate it at all.”

Something inside her that stress has coiled tight the past few days snaps and she sags from the relief. But he’s holding her upright, one hand brushing soothingly up and down her back, and she buries her nose in his neck and thinks she loves nothing better than being held by Jon. That this is where she belongs, right here, in his arms, breathing him in as his chest moves calmly with his own steady breaths, and that she--

“I’m not going to fall in love with you.”

The words just tumbled out of her; she stiffens. Jon’s hand stroking her back stills.

“I didn’t think you would.”

Sansa sits up properly; Jon’s arms slide from her and he sits properly too.

“But you worry, don’t you?" She glances at him through the corner of her eye, but he's staring out into the dark. "That I won’t be able to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not. But I’m not that stupid little girl anymore who played monsters-and-maidens and got carried away. I stopped being her the day Father died.”

Jon’s chest expands with a deep breath he releases through his nose, loud and sharp. Then he turns to her and she can’t read him at all, his eyes open but blank and his features too relaxed to reveal anything.

“I don’t worry about that.”

“Good.” Her smile feels thin and she forces it to brighten. “I’m getting tired. And I have dishes.”

“I’ll do the dishes. You go to bed.”

Perhaps she should protest, but her mouth stays shut while her body flees the porch and seeks shelter in the quiet bedroom, in the cold, lonely bed.

 

She’s still awake when he slips through the door, still awake when he curls up in his stupid makeshift bed, still awake when she hears him sighing and turning and never finding peace on the hard floor. Every rustle of fabric, every intake and release of breath, grates on her nerves until she’s so annoyed the words flow out of her without her permission.

“Would you please just sleep in the bed already.”

Jon heaves a sigh.

“I can’t sleep knowing you have to lie on the cold, hard--”

“I was a brother of the Night’s Watch. I’ve slept on ice cold ground covered with rocks.”

“You like it, then? On the floor." 

“I've had worse."

“Answer me honestly: why are you lying on the floor? For your sake or for mine?”

A pause, then: “Yours.”

“So if you only cared about yourself, would you choose the bed?”

“What does it matter?”

“Would you choose the bed or the floor?”

“I’d choose the bloody bed! But I don’t care about myself. I care about you.”

“Good!”

Sansa flings the blankets aside, finds her knitting basket, lights three fat candles on the nightstand, and sits back in bed, already knitting one, slipping one, knitting one, slipping--

Jon’s messy head of curls pop up behind the side of the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Knitting.”

“Aye, I can see that.”

Knitting one, slipping one, knitting--

“Sansa, it’s the middle of the night.”

“It is, but I won’t get any sleep if you insist on lying on the floor and this way I can at least get some work done instead of staring at the wall for _hours_ like I have the past three nights.”

Sansa turns her work and starts purling and slipping without looking at him.

“You’re really doing that? Really?”

Purling one, slipping one, purling one, slipping one, purling--

He huffs out his frustration. “Fine. You win.” 

Even though she refuses to take her eyes off the knitting, she feels the heat of his scowl as he climbs up on bed and makes himself comfortable, kneading the pillow into the perfect shape and pulling his blankets up to his chin even though she knows he prefers them at waist-level when it’s warm enough. Calmly, but in the brisk pace of someone who’s knitted since she was a little girl, thank you very much, Sansa finishes her row before laying her work back into the basket, blowing out the candles, and settling in too.

“You fight dirty, you know that?”

“Sometimes you have to play dirty to win,” she says, lifting her hair to drape over the pillow to avoid lying on it. “I thought you knew that.”

“Really?” He turns to her, propped up on one elbow. “You wanna fight about Daenerys _now_?”

“Daenerys? What’s she got to do with anything?”

“Isn’t that what you meant? You’re always asking me about Daenerys. Daenerys this, Daenerys that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do! Do you love her, Jon? Do you miss her, Jon? Don’t you want to marry because you lost her, Jon?”

All the heat in Sansa’s body rushes to her cheeks, leaving the rest of her colder than deepest winter. “You think I’m _jealous_.”

“No I don’t,” he says, but his eyes are too round and his cheeks too pink.

“You think I’m jealous. You think I want…”

A veil has draped itself around her, a veil that dulls all noise and obscures all sight and hinders the air from flowing freely into her lungs. _That's_ why he's been so uncomfortable. He thinks... Heat sears through her body. _Shame_. But she’s not jealous. And she doesn’t _want_. She doesn’t want.

“I’ve been through a lot,” she says in a trembling voice. “It’s true. And I’m broken, I know that. But I’m not _that_ broken.”

Before he's had a chance to reply, she turns over on her side and stares into the wall while waiting for the veil to lift when it only gets heavier and heavier until sheer exhaustion pushes her into a sleep filled with dreams of better days. Days when she was young and carefree and happy. Days of hugs and kisses and holding hands. But in her dreams, it’s never Mother or Father or Ayra or Robb. It’s never Bran or Rickon or Beth or Jeyne. It’s always Jon. Jon who holds her hand when she lies down on a summer meadow to watch the clouds. Jon who kisses her cheek after he saves her from a tower guarded by a beastly dragon. Jon who laughs when he pulls her into a hug and spins her around and around and around.

 

* * *

 

She wakes to sunlight tickling her eyelids and a steady drumbeat in her ear. Sansa blinks her eyes open. Jon’s chest. She’s lying on Jon’s chest, her hand resting on his stomach, her leg curled around his, while he’s keeping her close with his arm around her back. Holding her breath, she tries moving away--but Jon only tightens his hold around her and she swears he mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like _just a little bit longer._

Is he awake? She lifts her head to get a glimpse of his face. His eyes are closed and his mouth relaxed enough to reveal his front teeth. Sansa smiles to herself. He looks so dumb when he sleeps. And he _did_ say he needed this too, this comfort. And comfort is all it is.

“Jon,” she whispers, “is this all right?”

“Mm.”

In the back of her mind she knows something happened last night, something she better remember, but she's too sleepy and Jon's too comfortable and she can't find it in herself to care at all. With a soft hum, Sansa snuggles back into his embrace and allows herself to sleep, just like this, for a little bit longer.

 


	14. Jon

Jon wakes with his arms full of Sansa. Her hand rests on his stomach, her leg is hooked around his leg and the heat of her breath penetrates his sleep tunic (while he doesn’t breathe at all). If he moves she’ll wake with a gasp and scramble off him, press herself against the wall and stare at him as if he’s a monster. His lungs burn. He takes the tiniest breath through his nose. Sansa hums in her sleep and nuzzles his chest and soon she’ll wake and he can’t, he won’t, not again. As carefully as if handling wildfire, he relaxes the arm holding her close, eases her over on her back, and slides his arm out from under her. Then he leaves the bed.

When he sits down at the breakfast table, a bleary-eyed Fria nods in greeting while Odden blinks sleepily into his cup of tea. Pate is absent. Jon fills his plate with bread and ham and ignores the looks the old woman shoots him. Food and fucking, she’d said. Sansa told him as much during dinner (and he nearly choked on the kidney pie). Fria wants to know how her meddling went, he supposes, but despite all his and Sansa’s talking he’s even more confused about the rules.

But then Sansa joins them and sets the tone: she kisses Jon’s cheek with a murmured, “Good morning, husband,” and Fria relaxes with a satisfied smile and he knows everything will return to what’s become their odd version of normal.

“So…” Fria puts her elbows in the table and leans in closer, speaking softly to spare poor hungover Odden, who bends his head deeper over his plate. “How long are you staying, then?”

“Oh.” Sansa exchanges a glance with Jon. “If you want us gone, we’ll--”

“No! No-no. Odd and I’ve been talking--haven’t we, Odd--and you have nowhere to go, do you? And that awful man will never think to look for you here. And Will’s doing good work, and Alys you’re learning so quickly. Isn’t she, Odd? I tell him, Alys is such a quick learner, I tell him. We don’t have much, but we can offer food and a roof over your heads and a bit of wages. And if you happen to…” Her gaze lowers to Sansa’s belly. “Well, they don’t take up much space, do they?”

Jon’s stomach flips and he keeps his eyes on the plate, face carefully neutral.

“You do want them, don’t you?”

Alys takes his hand and weaves their fingers together. “Yes, of course we do.”

“Oh, you’d have such beautiful children. With curly red hair… Odden had red hair before he grayed. Always dreamed of a red-haired daughter, didn’t I, but… Oh, well! The gods had different plans for us and…”

As she keeps talking, Jon stares at his and Sansa’s joined hands and drifts off in stupid, useless daydreams where he and Sansa share the burden of ruling and the joy of parenting. It would be a joy, wouldn’t it? Becoming a father. But Sansa finds the thought of their loving one another absurd and if he wants children, he’ll have to find himself some lady, take his seat elsewhere, and do his duty in the marriage bed.

His breakfast lies forgotten on the plate, appetite lost among memories of candlelit cabins and unwanted touches. But Jon knows better than to let his lack of appetite win: he picks up the fork and stuffs his mouth full while Fria and Sansa blabber on about sewing dresses for the spring festival and a tunic for him and--

“What?” Jon pauses with the fork halfway between plate and mouth. “We can’t go to that. It’s too dangerous.”

The sparkle leaves Fria’s eyes. “Oh. Of course. You’d want to be careful. What a shame! Newly weds and all…”

While Fria talks on and on about all the wonderful things they’ll miss, Sansa’s movements slow down until she’s merely pushing food around the plate.

“We can’t go,” he whispers to her. “You do understand why.”

“It was nice being excited about something, that’s all.” Sansa looks at him with dull eyes. “I barely remember what that feels like.”

Then she grabs a pail to get water for the dishes, and Jon rubs his forehead with a sigh.

“No one will think to look for you there, though, will they?” Fria looks kindly at him. “Why would lady Alys hide among smallfolk she doesn’t know?”

“If something happens to her…” Jon shakes his head. “I can’t risk it.”

Fria takes a deep thoughtful breath before sitting down opposite him. “Sometimes you just have to live, Will. Even if it’s dangerous--or you can just as well stay in bed and wither away.”

  


* * *

 

Jon stretches out his aching back, wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. While he wanted to finish his furrow before heading back, Odden and Pate have already left for the midday meal and now Jon and his rumbling stomach follow. He finds Pate frozen in the barnyard, the boy’s jaw brushing the ground and eyes about to pop out from their sockets. Jon moseys over to the lad to see what’s going on only to find himself adopting a rather similar expression.

Outside the barn, with Fria by her side, stands Sansa in a pool of sunlight with a butter churn at her feet, her skin dewy and rosy from the exercise of her hand pumping the stick up and down and up and down and--

“You get to go to bed with her every night, you lucky sod,” Pate says and Jon wakes up from his stupor.

“Stop ogling my wife.”

With a gentle whack to Pate’s head, Jon sends the boy on his way while he himself remains where he is because Fria is watching him with an amused grin and Will would admire his rather fetching wife, wouldn't he? Even though Jon really ought not. He averts his eyes, glad his face was already red and hot from work when he joined them.

“Looks like your Will’s jealous.”

“My Will’s not jealous,” Alys says. “He knows I’d never run off with another man.”

Jon lifts one corner of his mouth. “Do I?”

“Of course you do,” she says with a look in her eyes no woman can deliver while pumping her hand like that without dirty thoughts entering the mind of a red blooded man like himself.

Jon shifts his weight from one foot to the other and swallows. Hard.

“I was a lady. You were a brother of the Night’s Watch. No land, no title. And I…” Her hand slows to a stop. “I married you anyway. That must mean something, mustn’t it?”

“Aye. Suppose it must.”

“Most would’ve advised against it.”

“Aye, most would’ve.” He saunters closer; Alys resumes her pumping, firm and steady, her breasts jiggling underneath her dress, her eyes full of promises Sansa never would promise. “Suppose I’m just that handsome.”

A smile twitches at her lips. “Lady Shurwood thought so.”

“And you don’t?”

She tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing his features. He so close now he can smell the sweat on her skin and the lavender with which she scents her clothes. She hums, licks her bottom lip, bites it; Jon’s heart beats harder and faster because none of it feels like pretending. Not in any way. No matter what she said last night. The way she looks at him... Perhaps it _is_ Sansa--

Then her eyes shift to the side and every bit of Alys evaporates. Fria’s gone and Sansa’s back, her pretty flush deepening into crimson before paling into bone white. Thinking about her mother and septa, no doubt. How they’d admonish her for playing such silly games at this age.

 

And yet she keeps doing it, day after day. When her soft lady hands develop blisters from the churning and Jon, used to caring for his rough swordsman hands, fusses over her at the kitchen table with balms and bandages, she gazes at him with stars in her eyes and a loving smile on her lips. When she bakes bread, she braids a little dough heart and bakes it just for him. When he comes in from working the field, she kneads his tired shoulders and neck and runs her fingers through his hair until he shudders. When she sews in front of the hearth and he, Odden, and Pate play cards at the kitchen table, she distracts him with flirting and teasing to help the others win, and whenever Jon stays up with Odden to unwind and enjoy the quiet, she kisses Jon’s temple with a murmured, “Goodnight, husband,” and throws him a loving look before leaving for bed.

She’s the perfect wife and he no longer knows how much of it is Alys and how much of it is Sansa acting out a fantasy with the only man she trusts, in a place they'll soon leave behind along with any consequences. She's the perfect wife, but he stopped playing a part ages ago and now he's all Jon and more in love than ever. She's perfect and he never should've volunteered to go.

Davos was right all along.

 

* * *

 

Jon wakes up with his arms full of Sansa. She’s warm and soft, curled into him with her nose pressed against his sternum as he lies on his side with his legs tangled with hers. He’d like to kiss the top of her head, stroke her back, pull her more firmly against him, but instead he keeps his eyes closed and remains still while waiting for her to stir. Rain taps gently against the window. It’s been raining for days and as the chill seeps into the bedroom each night, their bodies seek warmth from one another. The soothing melody nearly pulls him back to sleep, but then Sansa stretches out her body with a sleepy groan.

Part of him still waits for her to stiffen when she realizes their position. Stiffen and scramble off the bed, but she only ever rolls over to her other side, just like now, and Jon leaves the bed to get dressed. She’s awake. He can tell from the way she breathes, but she’ll stay right where she is until he’s left the bedroom.

They start all their mornings this way now--and neither ever acknowledges it.

With a smile, Fria pours him tea and hands him a plate of boiled eggs and fish Pate caught in the stream. She thinks Will and Alys are happier than ever and that leaves her feeling happy--and Jon feeling guilty. She views them as her own, wishes for Will and Alys to stay, wishes for babies, wishes for life and laughter on the farm. They still haven’t told her they’ll leave soon--or so he hopes.

He almost kissed Sansa last night. Even thinking about it leaves his cheeks burning. As always, she was teasing him to make him laugh and he leaned in a little too close to tickle her side in retaliation and her lips were _right there_. Dropped open, smiling, inviting. But then he caught himself and kissed her cheek, as if that was his intention all along.

Bran better deliver good news before Jon and Sansa become too comfortable in their roles, too comfortable with each other’s bodies, too comfortable in each other’s space. It’s only a matter of time before one of them crosses the line.

 

As if the gods finally smile down on Jon, a raven finds him the moment he leaves the cabin. Jon rolls up the scroll with a sigh of relief and watches his little brother take to the gray sky, the drizzle falling gently on Jon’s smiling face. On light feet he slides across the muddy barnyard to the chicken coop where he hears Sansa chiding the hens even before he’s reached the door. Peering into the coop, he finds her tentatively reaching for an egg. A hen pecks her hand. Sansa snatches it back with a yelp. Glares at the hen. Tries again, only for the hen to give another peck.

“Told you,” Jon says with an easy grin. “Told you you’d be afraid of hens.”

Sansa whirls around, spooking two hens who flap away with startled clucks. “I’m not afraid!”

“No? From where I’m standing, it sure looks like it.”

“You’re lucky Fria needs the eggs or I’d throw one at you.”

“And how would you accomplish that, seeing as you’re too afraid to get one.”

Sansa narrows her eyes at him and looks so adorably angry he can’t help but laugh.

“Stop laughing!”

“I’m not laughing,” he says, laughing.

Sansa huffs out a frustrated breath, hand darting into the nest box despite the protective hen. Then she pulls her hand back, aims, and hurls the egg at him. Jon shifts his stance to duck. His ankle twists. The slippery ground moves beneath his feet and he lands with an _oof_ and the squelch of mud embracing his body.

“Jon!”

“I’m all right.” He squints up at Sansa, who hovers over him, her red hair wavy from the light rain. “Ankle gave out. Eirryk said that could happen.”

“I’m so sorry! I was just pretending,” she says, showing him the egg still in her palm. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine." He holds out his hand. "Help me up?”

If he were Will and she were Alys--if they truly were--he would tug her to the ground just to hear her shriek with laughter. He’d pull her atop him and cup her face with muddy hands and kiss her until she moaned into his mouth. Sometimes he thinks Sansa would let him, that she’d enjoy playing the kissing games she never got to play with a man who’d never push for more. That she'd enjoy pretend kissing as much as she enjoys pretend marriage.

Sometimes he thinks she’d let him because she wants it, wants him, but then he remembers all the times she’s expressed disgust at the thought, and ignoring his instincts becomes easy.

Jon clasps her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. But then the world tips over again, his foot sliding in slippery mud. The ground hits his back and Sansa lands atop him with the softest groan. His hands fly to her waist to steady her; wide blue eyes meet his startled gaze.

“I fell,” she whispers, her breath hot against his lips.

Whatever news arrived in that raven, he couldn’t repeat it even with a blade pressed to his throat. He feels every part of her pressed against him, her waist small between his hands, her breasts resting on his chest, her lips parted in invitation, her eyes asking him questions he never thought they would. Perhaps she’s changed her mind. Perhaps loving him doesn’t seem so absurd any longer. Perhaps he could--

Something cold and wet smushes against his cheek. Jon scrunches up his face, eyes screwed shut.

“That’s what you get for laughing at me.”

“If you don’t want me to laugh, you should try being less amusing.”

Sansa sucks in an offended breath. He wipes his eyes clean and opens them just it time to see her scooping up another handful of mud. With a playful growl, he flips her over on her back and straddles her waist, trapping her beneath him. Sansa squeals, struggling against his hold, but he easily parries her attempts and locks her wrist with one hand as he gathers a handful of mud with the other.

“No! That's dirty!”

Jon moves his hand closer, mud dripping from his fingers. “That didn’t stop you from smearing it on my face, did it?”

“No! I yield!” She bats her lashes at him, voice sweetened with honey. “Please? I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“All right. But only this ti--”

Her wrist slips out of his grip. More mud splashes against the side of his head. Sansa’s eyes sparkle with mischief, her lips curved in a wicked smile.

Jon gives another growl and slabbers a handful of mud into her neck while Sansa squirms beneath him, shrieking out giggles while trying to give as good as she gets.

Someone clears their throat. Jon and Sansa scramble to their feet, hair and clothes soaked with mud. Fria’s standing at the door to the coop--a door Sansa forgot to close--and demonstratively shuts it. Then she puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head at them.

“You’re off to the hot springs. Now. I’m not letting either of you into the house until you’re scrubbed clean, I’m not. Get.”  


Although they saunter off hand in hand, the moment they’re out of view Sansa drops his hand and puts some distance between them. Not a word passes their lips as they walk, for while he glances at her so often he could just as well stare, he never sees her glancing back at him and it steals his voice entirely. A mud fight. Like two children. Yes, Lady Catelyn and septa Mordane would scold Sansa--and they’d make sure he paid too. Dearly.

Thank the gods it’ll all be over soon.

 

“Cersei’s dead,” he says once they’re submerged in the pool of hot water. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

Sansa looks at him, finally. “Does this mean we’re leaving?”

“There are still men out there, looking for you. Takes time for word to travel. We’re to wait for Brienne and Arya. They’re taking a carriage from King’s Landing.”

Sansa nods slowly, and then she stills. She’s yet to wash herself, mud clinging to her hair, splattered over her neck and cheek, and she shields herself with her old mask. Her lady mask. It transforms her into an old god, forged from water and earth and copper and marble. Ancient, indomitable, beyond reach.

“Sansa?”

Her eyes cut to him, revealing nothing. He softens his own, pouring love and empathy into his gaze. Her nostrils flare. Then a trembling breath expanding her chest shatters the illusion. Her lashes flutter. Another shaky breath and they move toward one another at the same time, water sloshing around them. He scoops her up in his arms and she clings to him as if he were the only solid thing in the world. Gently, he rocks them back and forth, humming soothing noises in her ear as she sobs quietly into his neck.

Not until her crying fades into silence does he notice the way she clings to him, how she's wrapped her legs around his waist, the skirt of her shift floating on the surface, leaving her bare beneath. Every inch of him that touches her skin burns. Jon releases his hold on her, leaning back. Without a word, Sansa lets go and moves to her side of the pool.

“Are you all right?”

She sniffles, licks her lips. “It’s a strange feeling. She meant the world to me once. I wanted to be her. Sometimes, even after they killed Father, it felt as if she loved me, in her own way.” Sansa lets out a dark laugh and wipes her eyes, shaking her head. “I really am stupid.”

“You’re not.”

“This is the first time I’ve been without enemies since Father died.” She gives another laugh, watery and tired. “No enemies. What’s that like?”

Jon shrugs, offering a smile instead of a platitude.

“I can live.” She splashes water up on her arm to wash off a streak of mud. “I want to go. To the festival.”

“Yeah? If someone finds you and hauls you to King’s Landing only to realize the queen’s dead, what do you think they’d do to you?”

“Find me? On a meadow outside a village no one’s heard of? I doubt that. Nothing will happen, Jon. I promise."

“We’d have to pretend a whole day,” he says, voice hoarse. “A whole day, Sansa. And a whole evening.”

“We do that now.”

“No we don’t. We see each other at meals.”

“And the evenings.”

“It’s not the same.”

“That’s why you don’t want to go?” She wraps her arms around her body. “I didn’t think it bothered you that much.”

“It’s inappropriate. What we’re doing. It’s not right. And the mud fight? What brother and sister would--”

“You’ve done it. With Theon and Robb and Arya. I’ve seen you fight with mud and snow and--”

“We were children, but we’re not children anymore. It’s my fault. I’ve let this go too far.”

“We’ve not done anything.”

“No? You know how we wake up every morning. I know you do. If people knew--”

“You’re worried about my honor.”

“Of course I’m worried about your honor!”

“No one has to know," she says, staring at her fingers washing off another smudge of mud. "Just don’t tell anyone.”

Jon sighs. “Sansa…”

“You told me you needed it too. The comfort. Or was that a lie?"

“Of course not but--”

“Then why can’t we just enjoy it? We’re not _doing_ anything. Why can’t we just fall asleep in each other’s arms? Why do we have to pretend each night that it’s not how we’re going to end up anyway?”

Jon stares at his hands through the warbled lens of water, how pale and distorted they are. No, they’re not doing anything. Yet. But boundaries are so easily pushed when one wants and the other needs.

“There’ll be music,” Sansa says, voice soft. “Can’t remember the last time i heard music. I want to dance, Jon. I want to feel free. And I want to share that day with Fria, because soon we’ll leave and I’ll never see her again.”

“We’re not going,” he murmurs to his hands because if he looks up and finds tears in her eyes he’ll break.

She doesn’t give him another word or look until they’re back at the farm and she becomes sweet Alys again and it feels like a weapon. The teasing a little sharper, the gazes a little harder until supper is cleared and she hides behind her sewing and chatting with Fria who talks about her many siblings and the dreams of children she never had.  


When night falls and Jon and Sansa lie in bed on their respective sides with their backs turned to one another, Jon remembers another night--ages and ages ago--when thunder and lightning filled the skies. All the Stark children gathered in Robb’s bed, even Jon. Even Sansa. They were a pile of arms and legs, giggling and shrieking under the covers each time the thunder rumbled over Winterfell. It was the first time--the only time--he felt as if he belonged. Truly belonged. A part of the pack--and a pack sleeps together, huddled close and cuddling, even after puppyhood. And they’re leaving soon, leaving the farm, leaving Odden and Fria, leaving Will and Alys and their dangerous habits behind.

He wants it; she needs it. As long as he doesn’t let it go further than this...

The bed creaks under him when he turns around and loops his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Sansa burrows into his embrace with a satisfied _mmm_ and he smiles despite himself.

“All right,” he whispers, “how long does it take you to make a new dress?”

She laces their fingers together. “Really?”

“Aye, but any sign of trouble and we leave.”

“I’ve already finished my dress. And I’m almost done with your new clothes.”

“You were that certain you’d win, huh.”

“No. Fria barely let me do any work while my blisters healed, so I sewed us something for when we leave. I promise. I didn’t think you’d cave; I just needed something to do.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Really. What made you change your mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Suppose sometimes you just have to live--even when it’s dangerous--or you can just as well stay in bed and wither away.”

“I agree,” Sansa says and he hears the smile in her voice. “Thank you, Jon.”

She exhales softly and tugs his arm more tightly around herself and he feels her relaxing in his embrace. The rain still taps gently against the window. He buries his nose in her hair and breathes her in, eyes drifting closed...

 

He wakes with his arms full of Sansa, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her arm slung across his waist. When he feels her stir, he stays right where he is until she lifts her head and gives him a good morning smile that makes his stomach swoop.

Once her behavior confused him, but he’s done searching for want in Sansa’s need for affection. She’s tried telling him for weeks and now he finally understands: familial affection was stolen from her at an early age--affection she received daily--and now she’s seeking it from the only person she can. Someone who’s a brother and yet not. Someone who’s vowed to protect her in any way he can. Someone who’ll give her just what she needs without taking what he wants. Someone who’ll never hurt her. Someone who’s safe. Harmless.

Jon smiles back but hides that part of himself that remains the same no matter what role he plays, the part who loves her. Oh, he’ll give her what she needs, but he can’t do it without protecting himself too. He can’t do it unless he remembers loving him would be absurd. Loving him would mean she’s broken. The things they do… They can’t mean anything. They don’t mean anything. They things they do don't mean anything at all.


	15. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been swimming in tumblr asks and my migraine decided to strike at a very inconvenient time (isn't that always the case), but I'm feeling better now. I'm no longer sure whether I'll be able to finish before s8 starts, though, but I do hope so. Keep your fingers crossed pls!

When Sansa said she sewed their new garments for the journey back home she didn’t lie. She _didn’t_ think he’d budge--honestly, she didn’t--but, perhaps, deep down a flame of hope still flickered. A flame stoked by Fria telling her Will has a hard time saying no to his wife, that he’d come around eventually just to see a smile on Alys’ face. Then Fria tugged at the high neckline of Alys’ dress and whispered that she’d noticed more things about Will. How often he stares at his pretty wife and how he wouldn’t mind her looking less like a septa, and a vain, frivolous spell came over Sansa and steered her hand.

“Will won’t be able to take his eyes off you,” Fria said when Sansa tried it on and gave a spin, the skirts fluttering around her. “I hope you go. It’ll be perfect for the festival. It blesses both soil _and_ womb, you know.”

Then she lifted her brows and nodded at the daring bodice and laughed when Sansa’s cheeks colored red. It’s not as daring as Margaery’s dresses, but closer to it than anything Sansa has worn in ages. And now as she and Jon have washed after their morning chores and are getting dressed in their new clothes, Sansa regrets it, just a smidge. Peering down at her chest, she tugs at the fabric to ensure everything is tucked in. Gods, Jon must think she’s _ridiculous_. And that she was lying--especially when he realizes they match. But she wasn’t lying.

Fria took the carriage to the village and picked out fabric and thread all on her own. So the dark blue of Jon’s breeches being found on the linen ribbon wrapped around Sansa’s waist, and the pale blue of her dress being found in the discreet leaf embroidery around the hemline and neckline of his bone-white tunic--a bone white that’s also found in the hundreds of tiny daisies embroidered on her dress--it’s all Fria’s fault. Sansa just used what was available, like the resourceful woman she is.

She adjusts the braid resting over her shoulder, smooths out her skirts, and runs her fingers over the plunging neckline one last time. Then she straightens her back and looks at Jon, who’s standing with his back to her, lacing his breeches. She clears her throat. He keeps lacing his breeches.

“Jon.”

“Hm?”

“What do you think?” she asks, heart beating a little faster (it always does when she shows off her work to someone).

Jon throws her a quick glance. “It looks very well made.”

She huffs out a breath. “You didn’t even look at me.” It comes out so sullen she has to force herself to meet Jon’s eye when he turns back to her, brow knitted. “They don’t have a mirror. How do I look?”

“Oh.” He gives her a look marginally longer than the one before. “You look very beautiful.”

He said it in the even tone of someone stating water is wet and now he’s already pulling the tunic over his head and she doesn’t stay to see how it fits. He can wear Pate’s old things for all she cares.

 

* * *

 

The stream where Fria does her washing is at least twice as wide as Sansa is tall and the bridge leading over it barely earns its name. It looks like a fallen ladder, its wide flat rungs facing the sky. Wide, flat, _slippery_ rungs. If she falls, the water will pull her downstream and she never was much of a swimmer. How far would she float? How long would it take them to find her? _Would_ they find her? Sansa’s stomach clenches as she watches the others walk across easily to reach the meadow on the other side, where the festivities are held. Even Fria, whose legs so often give her troubles, crosses it with the ease of someone having done it a thousand times--and she probably has.

Jon or Will or whoever he is waves at Sansa to come, but her body won’t move. The round, wet rocks supporting the bridge shine in the sunlight. Slippery. Everything’s slippery. She lifts her skirts and puts one unsteady foot atop a rock, legs shaking enough that she puts her foot back on solid ground. After everything she’s been through, this is _nothing,_ and yet her silly body freezes. If only there were a railing, something to hold onto--

Footsteps draw her attention back to the bridge. Jon coming toward her, proffering his hand. They usually walk hand in hand as Will and Alys, but today she didn’t feel like it at all and now she can’t help but glare at his big dumb hand as if he were offering her something unpleasant.

“I can walk on my own.”

“I know you can. But it’s my duty to worry about you and take care of you. Indulge me.”

“They can’t hear you, _Will_ ,” she mutters, but she takes his hand and lets him guide her onto the bridge while the water rushes below, fast and forceful.

“Look at me, not the water,” he says, moving on insultingly sure feet despite walking backwards. “All right? I’ve got you.”

Sansa nods and keeps her eyes locked with his, her feet taking one tentative step after another until they’ve crossed. There Jon jumps gracefully down on the ground and stretches out his arms toward her, inviting her to fling herself into his arms. Her stomach feels all odd, tight and uncomfortable; she takes a breath and, leaning forward, supports herself on his shoulders and jumps. His hands are strong and firm around her waist and he lifts her down on the ground as if she weighed little more than a twig. As if she were a fair maiden in a song and he the knight in dented armor coming to rescue her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, hands still resting on his shoulders and cheeks flushed from the exercise. “I know I’m silly but--”

“You’re not silly.”

His thumb rubs against her side in a motion he must think is soothing, but it only makes the flutter in her stomach increase, and she slips out of his arms and follows Odden and Fria down the trodden path leading through a patch of birches. Soon the meadow opens up before them, a great green field dotted with pavilions in different sizes and bright colors, the scents of grilled meat and fish, roasted nuts, and baked apples filling the air. They pass food stalls and fortune teller tents and a septon preaching about chastity; they pass minstrels and ale tents and jugglers tossing torches and daggers; and they pass fools and couples kissing and girls selling flower crowns woven from cornflowers, sweet pea, and peonies. After so many weeks avoiding large crowds, all the noises and smells and sights leave Sansa dizzy and she hooks her arm around her Jon’s arm to steady herself.

“All right?” he whispers.

“It’s a lot. But it’s wonderful.”

“Do you want a flower crown?”

She must’ve looked as pleasantly surprised as she feels, for Jon instantly pulls a coin from his purse and chooses a crown with flowers in different shades of pink and places it on her head so carefully, face drawn in concentration, that she can’t help but giggle. It’s Alys. It’s Alys who giggles at Will.

Someone knocks into her and Sansa whirls around, hands securing the crown lest it falls off. Three girls dart down the aisle, their long unbound hair dancing against their backs, and merge with a thick half-circle of cheering people. Intrigued, Sansa follows. Peering through the gaps between spectators, she finds two men circling one another, fists drawn and bare chests shining with sweat. One is handsome even with an eye swollen shut and blood trickling from his nose; the other not as comely, but with broad shoulders and narrow hips and barely a scratch on him. She always loved a tourney, with its elegant horses and lances and swordplay, and she quickly finds this has its own appeal. Both sports are dancing, in a way. This a more brutish dance, granted, but still a dance. A display of skills honed in alley fights and tavern brawls and whatever wars they’ve survived, and it draws her closer still.

A hand finds the small of her back, slides to her side and pulls her close. “You have to be careful,” Jon murmurs in her ear. “Stay with me, always.”

“I will,” she says without taking her eyes off the men. “Why are they fighting?”

“Why does any man fight?” Fria stands on her other side. “To prove something. And these lads are proving they’ll make good husbands, they are. That they’re strong and can protect their family. Whoever wins will have his pick, that’s for sure. But even so, he can still be challenged by someone else who’d rather see that girl on his own arm.”

“Doesn’t the woman have a say?” Sansa asks.

“Of course. But many girls agree to the challenge just to see more men fight over her. Gets the juices flowing, if you know what I mean.” Fria chuckles to herself. “You’ll find lovers aplenty beneath the stars tonight, blessing the land with their coupling.”

“And many a bastard born in nine months time,” Odden mutters behind her.

The handsome man ducks a punch; a delicate _oooh_ moves through the crowd and Sansa notices for the first time how many in the audience are women. Young women who look just like Sansa in their daring dresses and flower crowns. Young men as well, many already bare-chested and lined up to fight; others eyeing the pretty girls in the crowd (and some eyeing the men).

“You’d do well at this.” Sansa nudges Jon. “I bet you could take them all.”

“Maybe with a sword, but… Doesn’t matter. I’m not unwed.”

“No, you’re not.” Sansa rests her chin on his shoulder. “You’re all mine.”

Jon turns his head to look at her, his eyes dark, unfathomable. He holds her gaze for too long and his face is a bit too close, and it feels as if his gaze burns through her, lets him see her very soul, and despite what she just promised, Sansa’s feet carry her away from the discomfort, toward another distraction. Toward laughter.

Between a tall oak and an old chestnut tree stands a stage where a woman in a long, white wig converses loudly with a dwarf wearing Lannister colors, a black-and-red cloth dragon floating on poles behind them--

A loud sigh in her ear. Jon weaving their fingers together. He lifts their joined hands and shoots them a pointed look before giving her one too. She mouths _I’m sorry_ and turns back to watch the play.

Arya once told her about the plays in Essos, how they twisted the truth, and Sansa soon learns that Westerosi plays are no better. On the stage, the Mother of Dragons is the champion of the downtrodden and determined to stay in Meereen to end slavery once and for all, until the malevolent Imp corrupts her with evil whispers in her ear and cunning tricks in her bed. Tricks the actors play with loud moans and wicked lines and lots of pandering to the hooting audience. Sansa shifts, putting some distance between her and Jon, and turns her head slightly to hide her reddened cheeks. When the kinslayer, kingslayer, and liar finally turns Daenerys’ eye toward Westeros, Sansa draws a breath of relief--only to see a scene unfold where Tyrion climbs atop Drogon with Daenerys and manipulates her into burning down every Lannister man they can find while taking her from behind with exaggerated thrusts of his hips.

“It’s so vulgar,” she says over the audience’s roaring laughter. “And untrue. That’s not what happened.”

“No, it’s not. Makes you wonder what they’re saying about us.” As if summoned by Jon’s words, a black-haired actor steps out on the stage, a large wolf sigil sewn onto his tunic, and Jon’s jaw tightens. “Maybe we should leave before we find out.”

 

They find Fria by an ale tent, gossiping with a group of friends while Odden stands quiet next to an orating Eirryk. The moment the healer sees Jon, he waves at him to join them. Jon looks at her as if seeking permission, as if he were her sworn sword and not her cousin, and Sansa squeezes his hand with a smile before letting go. But even as she joins the women to chat, she feels his eyes still on her. Her ever vigilant protector.

Fria’s friends--four women of varied ages, all with weather-worn skin and work-rough hands--gush over her dress and Fria twirls happily to show off Alys’ hard work, the embroidery of elderflower, nettle, chickweed, bittercress, and other herbs Fria taught her during their foraging, climbing up the bodice and running along the hem.

“Will’s my nephew, see. They’re staying with us for a while, helping out.”

“That’s grand,” Birja, a woman with pale eyes and black hair, says. “Pate’s good and all, but he can’t do everything, can he?”

“They’re such good help, they are. And the dresses Alys makes! They have such long winters in the North. They do nothing but sew and sew and sew.”

“It shows,” Birja says. "That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Give us another twirl, Fria.”

Fria complies to her friends’ delight and Sansa finds herself promising to sew dresses to these women and their daughters and granddaughters, even though a carriage will arrive outside the farmhouse any day now and she and Jon will leave Fria and Odden forever.

It’s the oddest thing, how her heart clenches at the thought. Sansa longs for home, longs to return to normal, and yet… It’s the lack of responsibility, she gathers. A simple life of cooking and baking and foraging and feeding chickens instead of listening to petitions. Of unwinding in the evenings in front of the hearth with fabric and needle in her hands and an older woman's life lessons in her ears instead of doing paperwork alone in her solar. Of waking to birdsong every morning instead of the steady beat of a hammer making yet another weapon for yet another war. It’s peace and quiet and calm. She hasn’t felt this much like a normal girl since she left Winterfell the first time.

“She made Will’s clothes as well,” Fria says. “Ain’t he handsome, my nephew?”

“Oh, he’s a fine looking man, he is,” a short, brown-eyed woman whispers. “He wears those clothes well.”

Sansa can’t help but agree. The seamstress in her is left feeling rather satisfied when she admires her husband-- Jon. When she looks at Jon.

“She’s lucky, our Alys. He loves her something fierce. You should see the way he _gazes_ at her sometimes.” Fria sighs happily. “Young love, ain’t it wonderful? Makes me feel young too.”

As if he can hear them over the din around them, Jon pulls out one of his best besotted looks as he walks over to her, and the women around her nearly swoon. He’s remarkably good at it, acting in love. When he’s Will, sometimes it almost feel as if...

Small wonder Daenerys fell head over heels if he looked at her like that.

Fria beams at them when Jon positions himself next to Sansa and wraps an arm around her back to tug her close. She introduces him and gives a few lies they cooked up during their evenings sewing and knitting in front of the hearth. That he’s the son of her estranged sister.

“She’s dead to me.” Fria spits. “And now she’s dead for real. Didn’t even tell me I had a nephew, did she?"

Smiling, Sansa listens to Fria sprinkling in more and more lies about this made-up sister and why they had a falling out and why she’s never mentioned her and how she came to learn about Will and how he came to stay with them. She thrives like this, being the center of attention, and her friends couldn’t be more intrigued by the lies flowing easily from her lips about her sister and her son and his lovely wife.

“But no children?” Birja narrows her pale eyes at Sansa’s stomach, even reaches out to prod at it. “You need to dance the Mother’s dance, you do.”

“It's the one I told you about, Alys. It’s later in the evening. Odden and me will guide you through it. To make sure your marriage is blessed. It works too.” Fria nods and all her friends nod with her. “Odd and I stopped for years, we did. Then one year I decided to give it another go. A few weeks later, Pate came to us.”

“And get your fortune read,” Birja adds. “But don’t go to Vera. She’s all nonsense, that one. You’ll ponder her gibberish for years. Skulda, she’s the one. She’s in the indigo pavilion. From… what was it? Lorath? Lys? Volantis? Bah. Some Essosi place. And get a blessing too. You’ll be with child within a moon or two.”

“Oh, you should go now! Go on. Odden and me will meet you outside the tent later.”

Fria smiles so widely Sansa’s heart aches and she has to force herself to return the smile.

They should’ve told them the truth long ago, but the more she and Jon lied, the more they pretended, the harder it was to go back and now it’s _impossible_. What brother and sister would ever act the way they do? Even if their lives depended on it, what brother and sister--

Jon’s hand on her hip is too warm, too heavy. Sansa shrugs it off and settles on walking by his side instead as they weave through the throng of people milling between food stalls and performers and booths. If he's reading something into it, he doesn’t show. No, he walks calmly by her side. The only sign of discomfort is his tossing a look over his shoulder every so often. And _that_ look she knows.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers once he finally stops.

“Just some men. They kept looking at you. And sizing me up.”

“You think they’re Cersei’s?”

He rubs his jaw. “Could be. Or they just want to fight me to get you for their own.”

“What?”

“Have you already forgotten those men fighting? You seemed to enjoy it quite a bit.”

“The _unwed_ men, you mean. Fighting so they can find themselves a wife.”

He smiles at her as if she’s the most naive girl in all the world. “Maybe some of them. But a lot of them just want to, uh,  _have fun._ ”

“And how would you know that?”

“You’ve not noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

He nods to the east, where the meadow stretches toward a dense wood, but no matter how much Sansa looks she sees only people dancing around a pole with ribbons in their hands, a man juggling fruit he takes bites out of, and a band of dwarfs somersaulting and cartwheeling. But then Jon positions himself behind her, his body lean and warm against her back, and tilts her head slightly to the right.

“At the large oak. Don’t you see it?”

A wave of heat flows through her. A man is pressing a woman up against the trunk, one of her naked breasts hidden behind his large hand, her head lolled back as he showers her neck with kisses. Jon turns Sansa in another direction and another and another, pointing out new displays each time: behind some bushes, two pairs of legs sticking out; in the narrow space between two stalls, the unmistakable pumping of a man’s arse and a woman’s skirts hiked up to her waist. Sitting at a table covered with cloth, a man with a slack jaw and closed eyes and she doesn’t understand why until she notices the soles of a pair of woman’s shoes peeking out from under the table cloth.

Sansa’s body feels as if she’s lain in the sun for hours and hours, that feverish kind of heat that burns even on the inside and leaves the skin sensitive to the touch.

“Are you shocked?”

She jolts, too aware of how close Jon is, how his breath tickles her ear, how the scent of his sweat and the gray soap fills her nose. Moving away from him, she turns around and wraps her arms around herself. Oh, she remembers pawing and flirting and even sloppy kissing from feasts, both at Winterfell and at King’s Landing. She remembers people sneaking off while giggling, but not coupling out in the open like this!

“Aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

“And you think someone would want to do… _that_. With me?”

He shakes his head, mouth twisted in a crooked grin. “You can’t expect me to believe you’ve reached the ripe age of twenty without noticing men find you beautiful.”

“Everyone who’s ever called me beautiful has wanted something from me,” she says, and when Jon looks as if she made his point for him, adds: “ _Winterfell_. I even thought you--”

She bites her lip, averts her eyes.

“You even thought what,” he says so quietly she barely hears him.

“When you said my heirs could be your heirs. For one really short moment, I thought--”

“You thought I’d use you to get Winterfell?”

“No. Not _use_ me. You’re not like them. But that you’d-you’d…” Her thumb finds her palm and she stares at it rubbing and rubbing while struggling for words. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not what you meant. And no one here’s going to fight you. We’re married.”

“And how are they to know that? We could just be having fun, and if we’re just having fun, they can challenge me.”

“But we’re not having fun.”

“No, we’re not.”

“And even if we were, I wouldn’t want someone to challenge…” Her voice dies when she realizes the implications of her words and she looks up from her fidgeting to find Jon’s dark, inscrutable eyes on her. “I didn’t mean… That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. You’ve made that very clear.”

“Good.” She adjusts the linen ribbon wrapped around her waist. “You’ve done enough fighting for my sake. That's all I meant.”

“Suppose I won’t have to do that anymore. Brienne will take over."

“Yes. I hope they arrive soon. Can’t wait to return home.”

Jon exhales and, carding a hand through his hair, looks around the grounds as if expecting to see a tall blond woman and a short Stark girl among the celebrators. “Yeah. Me too.”

"Do you want to leave? The festival."

"No." He gives her an almost convincing smile. "We've not had our fun yet. Isn't that why we're here?"

“Yes, we're here to get our fortunes told and watch plays and listen to music and dance. Fria says all the minstrels compete for the honor of playing at the Mother’s dance. It has all these steps and--”

“You want us to do that? Really? I can’t dance.”

“I don’t believe that. I’ve seen you fight. You’re very graceful.”

Jon watches her, frowning. “No, I’m not.”

“You _are_. Have you ever even tried dancing?”

“Of course I have.”

"Was she pretty? The girl with whom you danced." 

“What does that have to do with anything?” he says, but his sullen scowl tells her she has it right.

“Pretty girls make you nervous. I remember that much. That’s why your dancing was poor. But you don’t have to be nervous with me.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not dancing. You can dance on your own.”

“It’s a couple’s dance.”

“I don’t care, Sansa,” he says and he’s all Jon--Jon, who has no problem saying no to his annoying sister. Jon, who’s sick to death with having to haul her around and indulge in her whims. “I need something to drink. This bleeding sun’s too hot. How do southerners stand it?”

He grabs her hand and moves toward an ale tent where a serving maid attends a large cask from which she pours ale to her customers. A copper star gets them two tankards and they find a space among the patrons on one of the many benches. Sipping on her ale, Sansa watches the people around them rather than talking to her brooding cousin, but now that Jon’s pointed out how everything’s focused on coupling, it’s all she sees. The flirting and the leering and the kissing and the groping.

Only two benches away, a man pulls a woman onto his lap with greedy hands and nuzzles her ample cleavage without shame. The men around him even cheer him on, and the woman giggles and rocks in his lap before giving him a big, wet kiss that leaves his lips gleaming. One of his hands vanishes up her skirts, his arm working in a steady rhythm, and the woman keeps her face carefully expressionless but can’t hide how her chest flushes a deep pink. Soon she slides off his lap and leads him away from the crowd, his manhood stiff in his trousers, his fingers stuck in his mouth. Once they join the crowd, Sansa loses them for a beat, but then she sees them passing the pole where people dance to find a spot under a tree. By now they’re too far away for her to make out any details, but it’s hardly difficult to know what they’re doing.

“Is this normal?” she asks Jon. “Is this what people do? Just out in the open?”

“She’s a whore.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.”

“Do you ever…” Rather than putting indecent words in her mouth, she gives him a long look.

“No.”

“Never? But don’t you get frustrated. Tyrion once told me men need--”

“Men don’t need.” Jon clenches his jaw. “Men _want_.”

“But you don’t want?”

“I'm not talking about this. Not with you.” He empties his tankard in one go and she hurries up with her own drink, even though drinking it quickly nauseates her. “We should find that Skulda woman so we don’t lose Fria," he says as they move away back into the busy aisle. "You wanted to spend time with her, didn't you?"

“Does that mean we can have our fortunes told?”

“And risk the witch seeing us for who we are?”

“You don’t honestly believe they have that kind of powers, do you?”

“Have you forgotten what a witch did to me?”

“I don’t think you’ll find someone like Melisandre at a village festival.”

“We can’t be too careful.”

“Please?” Sansa pulls him to a stop and watches him from under her lashes. “I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told. Always.” She even pouts, just a little bit, the way she used to as a young girl when she wanted her way. “Please. For me.”

Jon’s nostrils flare with a big intake of breath, the stare he gives her more old and tired even than Septa Mordane’s stares when Arya drifted off in daydreams for the thousand time during their lessons. Then Jon exhales, shaking his head, and presses his lips into a thin line.

“I thought you were more sensible than this.”

“I’m tired of being scared and careful all the time. Sometimes it feels as if that’s all I’ve ever been. I just want to feel like a girl for one day before we have to return home and take care of everything. Is that really so terrible of me?”

“No, it’s not.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “We’ll do something else. I promise. Something fun. Anything you want.”

 _Anything?_ An excited smile spreads across her face only to fade the moment she sees Jon’s eyes go round with fear and his shoulders stiffen. Then they slump, his mouth forming a sad curve.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Yes, you are. But,” she says, voice gentle, “if I forced you, I'd be horribly mean. We don’t have to dance.”

“No, it’s all right,” he mumbles to his feet. “Promised, didn’t I? Anything you want.”

“I don’t want to if you don’t want to.”

Jon nods to himself before looking up at her with a smile that only looks a bit forced. “It’s a good idea. Only married couples participate in that dance, right? Should tell Cersei’s men we’re not the ones they’re looking for.”

“You think they are her men?"

“Not really, but I can't afford to relax until the battle’s done. That’s how you lose. And I’m not losing.”

His voice is hoarse and his dark eyes shine with a rare intensity and she feels in her whole body the word he left out--he's not losing _her_ \--and that feeling carries her forward, links her arms around his neck and burrows her nose into his skin to breathe in deeply of the scent she's come to associate with safety and comfort and home.

“I’m so lucky I have you,” she murmurs. “I’m so _happy_ I have you.”

For a beat, Jon’s completely still--so still she nearly steps away--but then his arms close around her waist and squeeze her hard. This must be their first real hug since he comforted her on the porch. Their first hug as Jon and Sansa. Well, unless she counts the way they wake up every morning, or the mud fight, or the hug in the hot springs when she lost all sense and wrapped her legs around him and--

Sansa pulls away so quickly the flower crown slides off her head. Jon gives her an odd look that ties her stomach into knots, and she scans their surroundings to get away from that feeling while he picks up the crown and places it atop her head.

“There,” she says, gesturing at a line of narrow pavilions in brilliant jewel-tones. “Indigo, wasn’t it?”

She starts moving without looking back at him and three steps later, his warm hand closes around hers and she tries to ignore how familiar his touch is by now--so familiar she doesn’t even have to look to know it’s him. She tries to ignore how right his hand feels around hers, how right it feels when he weaves their fingers together (how right it feels when they wake up in bed each morning, equally entwined). How they’ll return home soon where none of this will be allowed and her bed will be as empty as her hand (as her heart). How she'll be lady Stark again instead of Jon's wife. Will. Will's wife. She's _Will's_ wife, only ever Will's wife.

Brienne and Arya can't come soon enough. 


	16. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently scenes need many words to happen. Who would've guessed! Amazing. This means this is 2/3 festival chapters--long festival chapters. And I thought I'd only need one lmao. I'm great at this.

Skulda’s indigo tent smells so strongly of cinnamon and patchouli, Sansa has to stifle a cough. At a small table covered by a silk-cloth painted with golden flowers sits the seer in a brown leather bodice wrapped in a fishnet shawl, her black hair a messy heap decorated with feathers. Though, even in the dim light of the lantern hanging from the ceiling can Sansa tell that haircolor isn’t natural. She’s dyed her own hair enough times to know.

They didn’t mean to enter the tent, but then Fria said, “You’ve been married for months, you have. You need a blessing!” and stared at Sansa’s flat stomach and she couldn’t help but wonder for how many years Fria chased an answer to her childlessness, how many witches and healers she visited before giving up, and suddenly Sansa found herself entering the tent with Jon’s hand in hers after all.

“Welcome! I am named Skulda of the Lhazareen,” the fortune teller says in a poor imitation of the Dornish accent and gestures at two leather poufs placed opposite her.

When Sansa sits, the pouf deflates with a soft hiss and she grabs Jon’s arm instinctively to steady herself. Shooting her a fond smile, he puts his arm around her and tucks her into his side as if she belongs there.

“Betrothed or married…” Skulda narrows eyes lined with coal-tar and steeples hands made brown by some oil she’s smeared on her skin too hastily, the uneven streaks revealing the ruse. “Mm. Newly-weds. Wanting Skulda to see how your life together will unfold. Very wise, very wise. Sometimes a little foresight is all one needs to ensure happiness. And all I need is a drop of your blood I will--”

“No blood,” Jon says.

Skulda purses her red-painted lips. “Very well. I’ll read your palms.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You can read mine.” Sansa proffers her palm.

“Four copper stars.” After being paid, Skulda prods at the soft flesh of Sansa’s palm. “Yes… You’ve had your ups and downs in life. An early childhood tragedy. Something that affected you profoundly and still does. I feel a… An accident or a loss or...”

“Yes,” Sansa says, and Jon gives her hip a squeeze as if to urge to stay quiet. “I’ve lost someone.”

“Mm. Someone close to you, a grandparent or parent or--”

“Both parents. I lost them when I was young.”

Jon’s fingers dig deeper into her hip, and she gives his side a pinch in retaliation. He jolts, his eyes cutting to her, hard beneath a furrowed brow. She only smiles innocently and returns her attention to the seer.

“Ah yes,” Skulda says. “You see it here, this little fork in the line here? Both parents. I see it very clearly. All these wars…” She peers up at Sansa and waits for her to nod before continuing. “Mm. It happened in the wars and ever since, you’ve feared you’d suffer the same fate. Dying young and leaving your family behind. Hm? Just like your mother and father who left their… children?” She draws out the word, looking intently at Sansa. “No. Child. You’re a lonely child.”

“Yes, I am,” Sansa says and feels Jon’s body relaxing next to her.

“Mm. All alone. What a terrible fate. And now you want to fill the gaping hole they left behind, isn’t that true? Children of your own--and lots of them--so they’ll never be alone.” She gives Sansa a once-over, eyes lingering at her chest for a beat. “But you’ve not been successful so far, have you?”

“No. I have not.” Sansa takes Jon’s hand and looks at him with sad, sad eyes; his nostrils flare. “ _We_ have not.”

“Oh, I know, I know. That’s why you came to Skulda, isn’t it? Alas...” She runs the tip of her finger along an unremarkable line in Sansa’s palm. “I’m afraid conception will be quite difficult. Quite difficult indeed. And that’s when your husband will find himself a lover.”

Jon lifts a brow. “You see that in her palm, do you?”

“Boy, I can see everything. _Everything_. How you long for a son of your own. You might love your wife now, but what happens when years pass without any sons?”

“Apparently I find myself a lover.”

Skulda’s eyes narrow into slits, mouth stretched into a thin smile. “Yes. And you’ll bring home baseborn babes to your…” Her gaze wanders over their well-tailored clothes while her fingers stroke Sansa’s soft hand. “Shop. A baseborn boy to take over once you grow too old and tired. A baseborn girl to look after her papa. And every day your wife will have to witness the evidence of her failure, the moment of happiness you found in another woman’s arms. Is that what you want? No. You love her too much. I can see that too, boy. In her palm, yes, but in your gaze as well. In your touch, in how you--”

“And what’s next?” Jon asks. “You telling us you have the solution?”

Skulda puts on a sage mask. “You need a blessing. A charm to carry with you until she conceives. It will please the gods.”

“I don’t think so,” Jon says and moves as if to leave.

Sansa stills him with a hand on his thigh. “How much will that cost us?”

“What’s a silver stag compared to a long, happy marriage with plenty of children?”

“Yes, Will. What _is_ a silver stag compared to a long, happy marriage with plenty of children?” Sansa gives Jon a pointed look. “That’s what your aunt will ask us when we leave the tent without a charm.”

Jon sighs at her, deeply. “Aye, can’t have that.”

“A wise choice.” Skulda drops the offered coin into her purse. “I need strands of your hair. One from each.”

After finding a nest of ribbons and yarn, she braids hair and fabric into a garish band while humming a monotone song and gestures at them to place their hands on the table--Sansa’s hand atop his. Then, while chanting out foreign words, Skulda binds the band around their hands in a way so similar to handfasting Sansa forgets how to breathe, how to blink, how to do _anything_ but stare at their hands bound together as one.

(It looks right, somehow. Doesn't it?)

Oh, why does she keep playing this stupid game? Does Jon know what this looks like? Has he ever witnessed a southern wedding ceremony? Her head feels too light and Sansa closes her eyes and focuses on inhaling and exhaling and inhaling and exhaling.

“Whisper your wish in your minds,” Skulda mumbles. “Close your eyes and whisper it to the gods. A long, happy marriage with lots of children.”

_Don’t wish, don’t wish, don’t wish._

“There.” Skulda releases them and wraps the band around Sansa’s wrist instead, securing it with a tight knot. “Wear this until your son is born and never ever throw it away. It will protect him and it will protect your marriage.”

Then she shoos them off and they stumble out into the dying daylight and Sansa looks at the lanterns lit all over the meadow, at the jugglers’ torches dancing like enormous fireflies, at the bonfire built where the Mother’s dance will take place later. At everything but Jon.

“Well, I hope you had fun at least.” His voice in her ear; his hand around hers; his scent filling her nose. “‘I can see everything.’ Pfft. That woman couldn’t see a bleeding thing. Everything she said was horseshit. _Everything_.”

“I know that,” Sansa says, pulling herself free with a smile she hopes looks carefree. “I’m not stupid. It’s part of the fun. For a moment you pretend and you enjoy it for what it is _because_ you know it’s not real. It’s like a game. It’s like…”

Sansa tightens her hand into a fist, the feel of the band and Jon’s hand clinging to her skin.

“It’s like what?”

“Where’s Fria?”

Sansa turns in a circle, scanning the myriad of people until she finds familiar salt-and-pepper hair. Where the line of pavilions ends and the open meadow begins, Fria watches her husband from afar as he speaks to another woman. That’s strange. Odden would never flirt with someone else--especially not in front of his wife. But why else would Fria stand to the side, looking all forlorn? As Sansa moves closer, though, she notices the pile of puppies in an enclosure of netting wrapped around low poles. Puppies to which Fria won’t get close.

“She told me once,” Sansa murmurs to Jon, “that she loves Pate as if he were her own. But she’s always wanted a daughter. Always. The way she looked at me when she said it…  Jon, we’re awful. They’re so kind to us and all we give them in return are lies.”

“We have to lie.”

“That doesn’t make it easier. I can’t even tell her we’re leaving. How would I explain that? My magical little brother sent us a raven?” Sansa lets out a tired breath and thoughtfully watches the puppies tumble around. “A puppy might not be a daughter, but it fills the gaping hole, doesn’t it?”

“You do know why she doesn’t want a new dog.”

“Yes, their dog died. She’s not ready for a new one. But sometimes you’ll never get ready unless you _decide_ to be-- What?” she asks when she realizes Jon’s staring at her. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I think you’re right.”

“Good.”

She gives a determined nod and heads over to Fria, who instantly starts speaking about the festival being Dake’s poor widow’s best chance at getting rid of the puppies, thanks to all the wives and daughters of merchants littering the place, but Sansa only squeals out “ _Puppies_!” with her most girlish voice and pulls the woman with her.

With a soft coo, she scoops up a puppy with speckled fur in black and white and eyes as pale blue as her own. Odden, who’s standing restlessly by Dake’s widow, glances at her, at the puppy, at Fria, at the pile inside the enclosure, at Fria, and back at the puppy in Sansa’s arms. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts the blade of yellow grass he’s chewing on from one side of the mouth to the other.

“Huh,” Fria says to Jon, “I didn’t know Alys loved puppies.”

“She loves all animals. Except hens.”

Sansa shoots him a good-natured glare Jon meets with a wide grin, and she can’t help but return the smile. But then she remembers mud-covered wrestling and Jon’s face so close to hers they could’ve-- Her stomach flips as if she were teetering on the edge of something dangerous. Jon’s smile slips. Is he remembering the same thing? Is he--

The puppy licks at her face; instinctively, Sansa shies away and the flower crown slides off her head and lands in the grass. Without thinking, she hands Fria the puppy and sinks down to pick up the crown. Her fingers brush against Jon’s as they reach for the crown at the same time. Warmth washes through her body. She draws her hand back and rises to her feet with her head bowed so he can easily put the crown back. It’s not to hide a blush. Not at all. They hold hands all the time; his touch has no effect on her whatsoever. And when she quickly turns back to Fria, it’s not to avoid Jon and his dark eyes, but to see how Fria gets on with the puppy.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Sansa says, her voice too loud and cheerful. “Look at that little face.”

“Suppose she is a fine looking dog,” Fria says, but even though her tone is curt, she still keeps the puppy in her arms instead of handing it back to Sansa.

“Her father’s a great watchdog,” the widow says. “And very loyal and sweet tempered to his family. Believe she takes after him.”

“Sounds like a good dog, that,” Odden murmurs to his feet.

“If you like her, you better act soon. She’s a popular girl. Got three people looking at her already.”

“We don’t have the coin to spare.” Fria draws out the words and won’t take her eyes off the dog whose ears she’s scratching. “We really don’t.”

“How much?” Jon says. “For the pup.”

“Three silver stags.”

“No!“ Fria’s hand shoots out, stopping Jon from paying. “You need that money!”

“I don’t need my sword, though. I’ll sell it. It’s worth a lot more than three silver stags, I promise.” He pats her hand with a warm smile. “Let me spoil you, aunt Fria. For everything you’ve done for us. For Alys.”

As if the puppy decides to help, it yawns and settles into Fria’s arms, content and happy, and Fria’s eyes go soft and misty. “Pate would love her… Suppose we do need a dog.” She gives a sigh. “Oh, all right. But don’t think I don’t know when I’m being manipulated. I’m _letting_ you manipulate me.” Then she looks up at Jon and Sansa with a watery smile and adds a soft, “Thank you.”

“I’ll keep her in the pen until you folks leave,” the widow says as Jon pays her. “Time for the competition now, isn’t it? Your time to shine, Odd.”

“You compete?” Sansa asks.

“No, he _gambles_ ,” Fria says, still cuddling the puppy as if she’s loathe to let go. “Always bets on the winner. Got an ear for it, my Odd. Don’t you?”

Odden shrugs and starts moseying down the line of pavilions; Fria kisses the puppy’s head and places her in the enclosure before following her husband. Out of habit, Sansa angles her hand out and Jon’s fingers instantly weave between her own, palms pressed together, as if they were always meant to walk hand in hand. As if they always will--but they won’t. Soon they’ll return home where none of this will continue and it’s as if someone grabbed her heart and squeezed it between their bony fingers.

“She looked really happy,” Jon whispers in her ear. “Feel better?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispers back, but she’s not sure how she feels at all.

 

* * *

 

The last notes of a cheery tune fade and the bard, a short balding fellow with a voice that couldn’t compete with his dulcimer, bows to the smattering of applause from an underwhelmed audience. An audience who perks up the moment a young lutist takes his place on the small stage and the women in the audience gasp in unison. The lutist is tall with hair as golden as the sun, eyes as blue as the ocean, shoulders much broader than his hips, and a jawline that would make Jaime Lannister’s jaw look like a lump of clay.

“Oh, look at that man,” Fria whispers. “Ain’t he something.”

“If his voice is any good,” Odden says, “he’ll win. Mark my words.”

After introducing himself as Alder, the lutist tells the eager audience he’ll play _The Sweet Lady’s Fool_ \--one of Sansa’s childhood favorites--and she sends a silent prayer to the gods that they’ve blessed him with a good voice. Alder settles down on a stool and starts plucking at the strings with agile fingers and when his rich, husky baritone voice flows out over the meadow, Sansa exhales her satisfaction. It’s _beautiful_.

“Oh, I’m so glad we came,” she murmurs, leaning closer to Jon. “Thank you.”

As he sings, Alder’s eyes move over the crowd, inviting them all into a world where the noble Florian did everything he needed to do--no matter how foolish--to win the heart of his beloved Jonquil, and Sansa can tell from all the titters and whispers that every woman Alder looks at feels as if he’s singing to her and her alone.

“He’s even more gorgeous now that he sings, ain’t he?” Fria smiles dreamily, swaying on the spot like a young girl in love. “He might be the most handsome man in Westeros. Wouldn’t you say, Alys?”

“He very well could be,” she says, and as if Alder heard her, even though he couldn’t possibly, their eyes connect and he shoots her a brilliant smile.

A lifetime ago her stomach would’ve swooped and her heart would’ve fluttered and her cheeks would’ve grown warm and pink, but this Sansa is too jaded to feel anything. She doesn’t even feel flattered. Perhaps beauty stopped mattering to her a long time ago. Although the Sansa of her girlhood loved admiring pretty men, this Sansa can’t even remember the last time she looked twice at a man.

“Oh, he’s _flirting_ with you.” Fria giggles. “Poor man’ll get his pretty teeth knocked out if he keeps at it. Will’s a jealous man.”

Sansa turns to Jon with an amused smile, but he’s staring off into the distance, too deep in thought to hear a single word. Does he know how serious he always looks? The moody set of his mouth, the furrow of his brow, the elegant slope of his nose, the black of his long lashes, the soft curve of his lips, the curled locks around his ear and--

Jon turns his head and their eyes connect and Sansa’s stomach swoops and her heart flutters and _oh_. Oh no. _No no no._

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says and slips her hand from his, pretends to scratch an itch on her other arm, keeps her hand there afterwards. Wraps her arms around herself.

“Are you cold?”

“It’s the music. Beautiful music always makes me shiver.”

As she speaks, she keeps her gaze locked on the handsome man on the stage, at the way his long slender fingers move over the strings and the way his lips quirk into a smirk whenever he sees a pretty lady. His eyes meet hers more than once and each time his smirk grows and she feels nothing--nothing at all--while she feels Jon’s presence all too intensely, his body heat and scent seemingly designed to draw her closer. She can’t let it. She won’t let it.

 _The Sweet Lady’s Fool_ ends and a new song begins, one composed by Alder himself to prove his skills, but her loud thoughts drown out all sound and blur the world around her. It’s the pretending. She always was a silly girl and when they pretend, Jon treats her like he’s desperately in love with her and she’s falling for it. Just like Daenerys fell for it. But Daenerys never knew it wasn’t real and Sansa does. Will’s love for Alys isn’t Jon’s love for her. She _knows_ that.

“Alys. _Alys!_ ”

Sansa’s head snaps to Jon, who’s staring at her with knitted brow and she wants to smooth out that wrinkle between his eyebrows, wants to soothe the worry from his tense shoulders by running her hands over-- No. She turns back to stare at Alder, to will herself into feeling _something_ \--just the smallest flutter of attraction in her belly--but all she can think of is _Jon_. Jon holding her hand, Jon smiling when she kisses his cheek goodnight, Jon curled around her in bed, Jon’s fingers running over her skin, Jon nosing her sleep-warm skin--

“Alys.”

She tears her eyes off the minstrel to meet Jon’s gaze. Can he see it? In her eyes. That want. A blush flows to her face so quickly her skin prickles.

“We're going to eat something. Are you joining us or would you rather stay here and stare at Alder for the rest of the evening?”

Right. She has a part to play. She’s Alys. Alys who loves her husband--and she’s doing a poor job at looking entirely dedicated to him.

She forces the corners of her mouth up into an adoring smile. “Why would I stare at him when I have you?”

Before Jon can hear the truth in her words, she grabs his hand and follows Odden and Fria to the Speckled Rooster’s ale tent, where they serve grilled meats, sausages, bread, and hard yellow cheese to customers seated by long tables on simple wooden benches lined up beneath an awning that once provided shadow but now hides the darkening sky from view. This is just what she needs. Silencing her thoughts with ale and her mouth with food while Fria does the talking. A chance to clear her head from this confusion she promised wouldn’t get the better of her. A break. That’s what she needs and she’ll be right again.

“There’s only room for two,” Fria says, gesturing at the almost full benches standing by the only table with any room at all, “but I’ll sit in Odd’s lap and you’ll sit in Will’s.”

Fria perches herself on the lap of her husband, who wraps a possessive arm around her waist and secures her there.

Sansa swallows. “I’ll stand.”

“You’ll be in the way, sweetling. The serving maids need to pass, they do.”

Sansa manages something resembling a smile and lowers herself delicately onto one of Jon’s thighs.

“If you only sit on one of my legs, it’s going to go numb,” he murmurs into her ear and even though there’s nothing enticing about his words, she can’t help but shiver. “Come here.”

As he helps her to sit more fully in his lap, she wraps an arm around his neck while his arm supports her back and the hand of his other arm curls over her outer thigh to keep her in place, and her stupid thoughts wander to that woman rocking in the lap of a man whose hand worked under her skirts until she was flushed pink with arousal.

_Gods, shut up!_

“All right?” Jon asks quietly. “Are you comfortable?”

“Mhm.”

While they wait for the serving maid to bring their order, Jon absentmindedly rubs circles on her thigh with his fingertips and she wants to scream, wants to squirm, wants to invite his hand under her skirt to touch a place she’s ignored for far too long and--

 _Stop it_.

Jon reaches for his tankard, his cheek brushing her nipple, and Sansa sucks in a sharp breath. Mouth dropped open, he looks up at her in horror, but she can’t stand meeting his gaze and grabs her own tankard to hide behind. She’ll drink and drink until she forgets that there’s only one man in all the world she trusts around her body. That there’s only one man in all the world whose touch she would allow.

_Wait. That’s all this is, isn’t it? Want and trust._

The day they forced her to marry Tyrion, she took all her wants and hid them in a place deep within and forgot all about them. But now when spring is in the air and everyone’s laughing and dancing and singing and _touching_ … How could she not be affected? And Jon is handsome--everyone thinks so--and she does trust him--more than anyone. But that doesn’t mean she’s in love with him. She just _wants_ \--and he's safe to want.

Would he agree to… having fun? There’s always moontea. Eirryk must have some-- Gods, what is she _thinking_?

Sansa takes another big gulp of ale, and when someone announces the competition is over and Fria and Odden move away to collect Odden’s winnings, she moves so quickly to the empty spot she nearly stumbles on her skirts. Jon watches her in silence before returning his attention to the food. There’s no blush on his cheeks. He doesn’t want her, didn’t feel anything stirring even though she sat on his lap and his face was so close to her cleavage he could’ve pillowed his head there and taken a nap.

Why isn’t he affected? He finds her beautiful--he’s said so himself--and she _has_ woken up to him hard a few times at least, but then men usually are in the morning and--

“Well well well, my mysterious sweet lady.” A deep, pleasant voice next to her. Alder. He’s standing by their table, smile wide and wicked. “You left before my performance ended.”

“We were hungry,” Jon says.

“Yes,” Alder says, but he keeps his eyes on Sansa and swipes his lips with his tongue. “I’m hungry too. Winning always whets my appetite.”

“It was well-deserved,” Sansa says. “Your rendition of _The Sweet Lady’s Fool_ is the most beautiful I’ve ever heard.”

“Well...” Alder puffs out his chest. “When I’m in the presence of great beauty, my performance is always inspired. Say…” He puts his hands on the table and leans in closer. “Has anyone ever told you you’re as beautiful as the sky at sunset? That auburn hair, that golden skin, those pink, pink lips. Mm, I could write a thousand songs about your beauty, sweet lady. Has anyone ever written a song about you?”

“No. Never.”

“Inconceivable. Let me remedy that. Tonight? After I’ve played at the Mother’s dance, I’ll carry you to a secret glade where there’s nothing but you and I and my... _lute_ beneath the starry sky…”

As if he truly finds her beauty awe-inspiring and not just something with which he could pass the time, Alder gazes down at her with a look of pure adoration. A lifetime ago she would’ve believed it. A lifetime ago, she would’ve drowned in his eyes, gotten drunk on his flattery, and ended up with her back against the cool grass while he took what he wanted with no concern for her honor, but this Sansa finds there’s nothing easier than taking Jon’s hand across the table and looking at him and only him.

“I’m married. Very happily married.”

“Oh.” Alder stands up straight, looking down his nose at Jon. “I thought he was your little brother or something.”

Jon tilts his chin up, eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me or are you too scared I’ll ruin your pretty face?”

“I’m a lover not a fighter.” Holding his hands up, Alder backs away from them with a careless grin. “Another time, sweet lady.”

The moment Alder’s out of sight, Jon snatches back his hand and goes back to eating his grilled chicken as if nothing else but food existed in the world, and Sansa goes back to sipping her ale. Still not her favorite thing in the world to drink, but she’s grown used to it by now. Somewhat. She’s at least come to enjoy the woozy high and how laughter comes more easily. Well, when the company invites it and Jon’s clearly gotten more social interaction today than he can stand. Unless he’s--  _Don't be ridiculous._ He's tired, that's all; she’s seen this look many times before when the world around him is too loud and all he wants is peace.

“Do you want to go home?” she asks.

“Home?” He tears off meat from a chicken wing with his teeth. “Aye. I’d love to go home.”

“I meant to the farm.”

“I thought you came here to dance.”

“You only agreed to dance so we wouldn’t get our fortunes told. But now we’ve had our fortunes told.” 

“I’m not sure I would call it that.” He licks grease off his thumb. “Alder’s playing at the dance, isn’t he? You’ll get another chance to admire him.”

“Admire? If I go to the dance it will be to dance--unless you don't want to anymore?"

"Do _you_ still want to?"

"Of course I do."

Jon hums, nodding to himself. "And what happens afterwards?"

"I don't know. We go home?"

"Yeah?" He shoves the last piece of bread into his mouth. “What happens here doesn’t count. Nothing that happens here counts. No one will ever know.”

“What are you talking about?"

Jon sucks his teeth and wraps his fingers around the tankard, takes a swig of ale. “If you decided to… have fun. After the dance. With Alder.”

“Jon! I’m a lady.”

“What, you think it’s only men who want? No.” He huffs out a joyless laugh. “Ladies want too. I know that from experience, remember?”

“And you wouldn’t worry? If I walked away with a complete stranger for some _fun_.”

“Of course I’d worry! Worrying about you is all I ever do!"

"You are making no sense. You didn't even want us to get our fortunes told and now you want me to run off with some man? Did you suddenly stop being afraid I'll get taken?"

"No, but why should I care and worry when you are being _entirely_ careless and--" Jon’s eyes flicker up to something behind her and his jaw tightens. “They’re coming back. Time to pretend we’re in love again.”

Rubbing his temple, he sighs so deeply she’s never felt like more of a burden in her life, and she dulls the feeling with more ale until Fria stands by the table with a bright smile.

“Odd won enough that we can pay you back for Dot. That’s what I’ll call her. Isn’t it just right? Dot.”

“It’s very pretty,” Sansa and Jon say at the same time and while that usually would’ve made her smile, now it only annoys her further.

She never asked him to protect her, he offered. She didn’t ask him to travel with her, he insisted. She didn’t force him to pretend to be married, he thought it was necessary. She takes another sip. He’s such an _idiot_.

“Are you ready? The dance is about to start. Better drink up. Well, perhaps you should take it easy, Alys. You already look a bit flushed, you do. Remember the bridge? Wouldn’t want you to take a dive, would we?”

“I’m not that drunk,” Sansa says and tips her head back to empty her tankard.

“Not yet.” Fria laughs. “Oh, I’m sure your husband will carry you over if needed.”

“He can’t carry me.” Sansa swallows a burp and puts the empty tankard down on the table. “He’s too small.”

Jon expels a sharp breath. “I’m _what_?”

“I do sew your clothes. I’m taller than you and my shoulders are broader. If you were to carry me, you’d topple over.”

“I would not.” He glares at her. “And your shoulders are not broader than mine.”

“No?” She gets to her feet and her head buzzes as if she’d spun around and around and around; she grabs the table to steady herself and motions for him to stand. “Come on. Fria can tell us. Whose shoulders are broader. His or mine?”

“It’s hard to say, really.” Fria’s eyes flit between them, her smile showing more teeth than happiness. “And Will’s very strong, I’m sure. We really should be going to the bonfire now.”

Licking his lips, Jon nods slowly before swallowing the contents of his tankard in one go. “All right,” he says and winds one arm around her back while the other goes behind her knees.

Then she’s in the air, her feet dangling, and the crowd around them erupts in hoots and ribald jokes. Someone even starts singing a bawdy tune about a knight carrying his prize back to his castle for a sweet, sweet time. Jon lifts his eyebrows, chin jutting out as if to tell her " _I told you so"_ and she wants to hurl a snarky retort right into his dumb smug face, but the butterflies looping around in her stomach render her speechless. Can he feel how her chest heaves and her heart gallops against her ribs? Is he aware of his fingertips nudging her breast and of his lips being so close to her lips they could--

“Will you walk to the dance on your own, my lady,” he says in an insultingly even tone, “or shall I carry you?”

Sansa shoots him a dark look. “I can walk on my own.”

“Are you sure? It’s really no problem.”

“Fine. You were right; I was wrong. Now put me down.”

Once she feels solid ground beneath her feet, she takes a step forward to get away with her dignity intact, but her traitorous knees buckle. Jon’s hand finds her elbow, supporting her, and then his face is so close she goes dizzy again--only to sober up in an instant. There’s no heat in his eyes. He has the same searching, concerned look as Maester Luwin whenever he examined someone. Sansa ducks her head to get away from his probing gaze. The flower crown lies on the grass. She never even felt it slide off. Well, it can stay. She's not picking that blasted thing up again.

“ _Did_ you drink too much?” Jon asks. “We can go home, if you want.”

“No. I want another chance to stare at Alder.”

Without waiting for a reply, she starts making her way toward the bonfire with her head held high, entirely certain of her feelings. It’s lust, not love. How could she ever be in love with someone so _infuriating_?


	17. Sansa

Two by two the dancers position themselves around the bonfire in a wide circle, with onlookers in a dense, motley wreath around them which starts and ends by the stage where Alder already sits with a small ensemble of musicians behind him. The tradition always draws a crowd, Fria says, both for the music and the dancing, but this time it’s unusually large. All thanks to Alder, of course. Alder and his voice and his face and the smiles he aims at any woman looking his way. With that beauty and talent, soon he’ll be invited to a great lord’s castle or even the Red Keep where he’ll get coin and ladies to his heart’s content.

Invited by whom, though? Sansa and Jon never did discuss that, did they? What happens once Cersei’s gone. Will Jon want to--

“You’re staring at him.”

Sansa shifts her eyes to Jon. “Who?”

Jon’s nostrils flare, but his lips stay still and then the music starts and, guided by Fria, they move tentatively through the steps. While Sansa’s a little unsteady on her feet--just a bit--Jon moves easily and never misses a beat, never steps on her toes. Never smiles. Never meets her eyes. It only makes her falter more. Why did he agree if he hates it so much?

“Now every other couple will stop while the rest dance around them,” Fria pants out. “Just stand still and hug until the chorus starts.”

As if hugging Sansa is the last thing in the world he wants to do, Jon’s face darkens as he pulls her in with strong arms. By now the evening air carries a crispness that prickles her skin. The warmth of him is irresistible and despite his sullen face, she can’t help but snuggle into his embrace and rest her buzzing head on his shoulder.

“You cold?” he murmurs, wrapping his arms more tightly around her and turning them around so that the bonfire is behind her.

“A bit.” She nuzzles his neck and lets her eyes drift closed as they sway gently together. “This helps, though.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Do you?”

“You wanted to dance. We’re dancing.”

“I wanted to have _fun_.” She pokes him in the chest. “My brooding husband is making it difficult.”

“Yeah, well, my wife keeps staring at another man.”

Sansa stills, her eyes flying open. “Are you jealous?”

“I’m _supposed_ to be. You do realize it’s not just in front of Fria and Odden we need to pretend, right? It’s _everyone_. But the moment they leave, you-you flirt with other men and--”

“I didn’t flirt.”

“It looked like it. I know we’re not actually married but-- Well, how would you feel? If a gorgeous woman flirted with me in front of _everyone_ and I didn’t instantly make it clear I was married?”

_“Do you love her? Did you give up the North for her?”_

Sansa’s own voice rings in her ears and she squeezes her eyes shut to get away from the memory of the Dragon Queen on her brother’s arm and how her stomach churned each time she had to watch them.

“Wouldn’t it bother you?” he asks and starts swaying again as the other pairings whirl around them.

“It would,” she mumbles. “I’d be humiliated. I’m sorry, Jon. I wasn’t thinking--and I wasn’t flirting.”

He sighs so deeply her whole body moves with him. “This is why I didn’t want to pretend for a whole day. You’re a young, beautiful woman. You should be able to flirt with him or anyone you want, but you can’t. Not for as long as we have to pretend, because Will would punch that man and I can’t start fighting people.”

“I don’t want to flirt with him.”

“Sansa--”

“How naive do you think I am?” She pulls back to frown at him. “Alder forgot me the moment I was out of sight. He’s got women lined up from here to... Maidenpool. Yes, he’s very handsome, but I don’t fall for that anymore and I wouldn’t have fun with someone I didn’t trust.”

Jon focuses his gaze on her, scrutinizing her expression with his eyebrows slightly tugged together.

“You don’t believe me. You think I’m a stupid little girl who never learns, don’t you.”

“No, I don’t,” he says, but instead of meeting her eyes he’s already looking out over their surroundings. Surroundings full of dancers blessing their pretend marriage in a fertility rite she’s participating in willingly--happily, even--with the most sullen man in the world. A man whose jaw is clenched so tightly he’ll wake up tomorrow with a headache and still he insists on staying. She can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of the situation.

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Since you want to stay, could you at least _try_ to have fun? Please?” She looks at him through her lashes and brushes her thumb gently through the beard of his chin. “For me?”

He heaves another sigh--even rolls his eyes--but nods his head yes and she thanks him with a smile and the briefest, lightest kiss to his cheek that’s pure instinct and no thought and a million butterflies in her stomach.

Then the chorus starts and they whirl back into the dance that little by little lures out the enthusiasm in Jon. Which each step, which each smile she gives him, he relaxes more and more and gives into the rhythm and soon Sansa learns with the greatest satisfaction that he’s as graceful a dancer as he is a fighter. Giggling and smiling, all drunk on joy and the sudden generosity of her partner, she’s the one who makes mistakes and steps on his toes--but each time Jon catches her easily and leads her back into the routine with a grin so self-satisfied she would’ve glared at him hadn’t her eyes been too busy shining with happiness.

The music reaches its crescendo and through the sweetest diminuendo calms all dancers into a smooth swaying. Jon’s energy simmers down too, but the echoes of happiness linger in the curve of his lips and the sparkle in his eyes and the lack of tension in his so-often furrowed brow.

“You’re having fun,” Sansa says, touching the faint dimple in his cheek.

“Is this the part where you say, ‘I told you so?’”

“This is the part where I tell you you’re a good dancer.”

Jon huffs out a breath. “No, I’m not.”

“You are. Every woman here envies me.”

“You don’t have to exaggerate.”

“I’m not. My husband is the most handsome man here _and_ the best dancer. They all wish they were me.”

As if he’s searching for even the tiniest hint of her lying, Jon examines her features with slightly narrowed eyes and it only makes her smile grow. His gaze drops to her lips, rests there a beat too long. Long enough for her heart to flutter. If she kissed him now would he allow it? It’s against the rules, but perhaps the rules don’t matter any more. Not here where nothing counts. Was that what he meant? They can do whatever they want and when tomorrow comes they’ll go back to pretending--a different kind of pretending where what happens after evenfall is nothing but the sweetest dream.

She leans in closer, just a touch, but Jon’s already turning his head to search the crowd for all those women wishing he were theirs. Sansa exhales her disappointment. He didn’t want her admiration; he only wanted validation after she was so awful and made fun of him for his height. He wants validation and she wants--

She sucks in a shuddering breath and takes a step back to put some distance between them. Alder sings about sap rising and buds bursting and sprouts growing and the absurdity seems a little less amusing.

“Soon it’s time to consummate the dance!”

Sansa jolts. Fria’s watching her with a friendly smile, but all Sansa can think about is the rather raunchy activities surrounding them all day. Raunchy activities taking place in broad daylight. Fria couldn’t possibly mean that they--not in front of everyone--

“Once this verse ends, the chorus comes one last time and that’s when we kiss until the music ends.”

“Oh.” Sansa breathes out in a relieved smile. “A kiss.”

Then it registers, punching the air from her stomach, and she inhales sharply and stares at the man before her who's supposed to be her husband. They must mirror each other completely with their wide eyes and parted lips and still chests, as if the smallest movement would frighten the other into skittering away (or moving closer still).

“What’s got into you?” Fria asks. “You look as if I asked you to eat a maggot.”

“Will doesn’t like kissing in public,” Sansa rushes out.

Jon gives her a bemused smile. “And you do?”

“You _have_ to kiss,” Fria says, “or your marriage will be cursed! You can’t participate in the dance and not do it properly. You’ll anger the gods.”

Jon’s still and quiet, the bonfire’s flames reflecting in his blank eyes, painting his features with light like glowing amber and shadow like the deepest bruise. Their lives don’t depend on it. They could walk away now. Perhaps she should. Perhaps she should take his hand, squeeze through the crowd, and stroll back to the farm.

Or she could stay right here, where nothing counts, where she could choose to get kissed for once without any consequences. Just to see what it feels like.

The beats of her racing heart drown out the music, the crackling of the fire, the din of the audience, the small voice in the back of her head telling her to stay silent. Sansa lowers her eyes and draws a breath to speak.

“I can think of worse things than kissing my husband in public. I’ve been through worse things than kissing my husband in public.”

When Jon says nothing, she lifts her gaze; he’s not even looking at her but at the audience. Did he even hear her? Does he even care? Around them one couple after another lean in to meet in kisses, some soft others passionate, and soon it’ll be Fria and Odden’s turn and then Jon and Sansa and he’s still not looking at her.

A gentle rejection, but it stings all the same; she reaches deep within for her trusted old mask she’s forged from ice and biting winter wind.

“I’m not superstitious, though,” Sansa says, voice not quite as cool and even as she’d like. “It doesn’t ma--”

Warm lips steal her words, her breath, her heart. Eyes falling shut, Sansa winds her arms around his neck and rests in Jon’s embrace. It’s such a delicate thing, his kiss, even when he changes the angle and finds her lips again. So tender and loving, like the summer breeze whispering its fingers over her skin, waking her from the deep slumber of winter and urging her to press closer, to seek more of his warmth until she’s wholly thawed.

Much too soon he pulls away and in her ear whispers words she couldn’t possibly understand. Not when she’s floating in a haze much sweeter and seductive than the high of ale. Not when his lips are so close she could kiss him again if only she turned her head. But she nods her head absentmindedly and stumbles after him when he leads her toward the dispersing crowd, the fingers of her free hand touching her lips to imprint the memory of his kiss.

 

* * *

 

She’s back in Jon’s lap, back in the ale tent for one last drink before they head home. Back because he asked one of the serving maids to mind Sansa’s flower crown until they returned. “Thought you wanted it as a keepsake,” he said when he placed it back atop her head and she wondered whether he knew her better than anyone.

Does he know her heart too? Can he know her heart when she barely knows it herself? She’s starting to, though; it’s hard to remain obtuse when his laughter makes her want to kiss the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes and his careful touches wake a frustrating need for his hands to wander to places they shouldn’t. It’s hard to remain obtuse when she can’t think of anything but what could happen in the safe cocoon of darkness and silence once they finally lie down in bed together.

“I saw that Alder admired you, Alys.” A familiar voice pulls Sansa from her thoughts. Eirryk sits opposite her; she never even noticed him joining them. “Did he challenge Will for a fight?”

Fria gasps delightedly and lean closer to Sansa with glittering eyes. “Did he really? Did Alder talk to you? Oh! Tell me everything. Was he has handsome up close? What was he like? What did he say?”

Sansa cuddles closer to Jon. “Nothing of interest.”

Jon scoffs. “He called her sweet lady and wanted to carry her away and write songs about her all night. He wanted to show her his _lute_.”

“He accosted her in front of you?” Eirryk asks. “And you didn’t punch him? I’m impressed by your restraint.”

“Yeah, you should’ve punched him.” Grinning, Fria winks at him. “Gets the juices flowing, don’t it. The sap rising. Women like a bit of that.”

Smiling, Jon shakes his head. “You want men fighting over you like dogs over a scrap of meat? Don’t you want to decide for yourself who to be with?”

“It’s not just that, is it? It’s knowing he can protect you. That he’s a proper man. And if you think Alys don’t like that, you know nothing.”

Jon’s smile fades, his lips pressing together so hard they pale. That makes Sansa want to kiss him too, kiss away the tension until they’re soft and pink again. Oh, she’s gone mad. Mad with want and mad with--

“Gods, I need to wee. Alys?”

Odden sighs loudly. “Can’t you keep it in until we get home?”

“No.” Fria takes Sansa’s hand and pulls her off Jon’s lap. “We’ll just pop round the corner there. Behind those trees.”

 

* * *

 

Once they’re hidden beneath a row of trees and bushes, Fria shifts closer to Sansa and whispers, “I don’t need to go. Just wanted to talk before we go home.”

Glancing through the gap between two trees, Sansa watches Jon pacing back and forth on the meadow as if he were patrolling the Wall, far away enough that he won’t hear them talking but close enough to come running if she calls. Warmth blooms in her chest. Her protector.

“Were you quarreling today?” Fria asks. “You seem to have a nice enough time now, though, but you seemed so upset earlier. And Will…” Frowning, she shakes her head. “Something’s not right. I can feel it. You can always talk to me, Alys, if he’s being unreasonable. Was it Alder?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m having a wonderful night.”

“Are you sure? Even during the dance, you seemed… off, didn’t you?”

“I loved the dance,” Sansa says and she can’t stop a wide smile from spreading on her lips, lips kissed by Jon with a tenderness utterly new to her. “I think this might be the best night of my life.”

Fria chuckles. “You must’ve had a disappointing wedding night.”

It should be an easy lie. Letting out a little laugh and saying _of course not_ , but no words come. With her thumb, Sansa rubs at the line in her palm that claims she’ll have no children.

Fria shifts closer. “Alys?”

“Will and I have never…” Sansa looks up at the older woman. “Done that.”

“ _Never?_ But you’ve been married for months, you have!”

Sansa smiles faintly. “The man I told you about, the one I escaped from, he wasn’t a pleasant man. Ever since, even the thought of-- I’ve not been ready. And Will would never push me. He’s never even even tried touching me. But…” She throws another glance at Jon and her heart dances in her chest. “I think I might be ready. I am ready.”

Fria says nothing, only looks at her with kind eyes as if she can sense Sansa has more to say and so it comes out, all too easily.

“I’m not sure he feels the same, though.” Sansa hugs her waist, rubbing one arm. “The brothers of the Night’s Watch are family. So when I came to Castle Black, Will and I shared a brother. He said it was his duty to watch over me or else our brother’s ghost would come back and murder him. So that’s what we were at first: brother and sister. Not by blood but… That’s how we traveled. But we realized he couldn’t protect me properly as a brother. It wasn’t love that made us marry; it was necessity. And I still don’t know how he feels. I don’t know whether his feelings have changed.”

“Have yours?”

Sansa takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then she nods, releasing that breath slowly. “I’m in love with him.”

Beaming, Fria squeezes Sansa’s hand between her own. “Then I have wonderful news, my sweet Alys. If that man doesn’t love you from the bottom of his heart, I’m the High Septon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, Alys. The way he looks at you, it’s real. It’s not duty. It’s love. _And_ it’s want. He wants you. I know enough about men to promise you that. He can’t take his eyes off you!” Fria loops their arms together and starts walking. “Well, now I know why you’re not getting pregnant! There’s not a single blessing that works unless you lie together.”

“I don’t know how to… I’ve never. At least not without force.”

Fria stops. Stays silent for a beat before looking up at Sansa with kind eyes and speaking with a voice softer than a mother’s kiss. “Then ask him. Will’s a bit quiet, he is, but he loves you and if you only ask him to show you, I know he’ll be gentle and guide you. I just know it.”

“I think so too,” Sansa whispers.

“Oh, sweetling. Life’s going to be kinder to you from now on. I’ll make sure of it.”

A large hand touches the small of Sansa’s back. Her eyes widen. _Oh, gods_. Did Jon hear their conversation? But then the hand slides to grab her waist and turn her around and the touch is all wrong. She knows Jon’s touch all too well by now and fear arrests her, leaves her paralyzed beneath the grin of a tall sharp-nosed man with cold, cruel eyes.

“Oh. You’re not Ynga,” he says. “You redheads all look alike from the back.”

Then he swans off and the whole interaction was so brief Fria barely reacted and yet Sansa needs to take several measured breaths to calm down her racing heart. Cersei’s dead. Her men no longer look for Sansa. She has nothing to fear anymore.

They round the row of trees and Jon’s eyes find them instantly and her pulse starts racing again.  Perhaps she has something to fear after all. Is it Jon or Will who lights up when he sees her? Is it Jon or Will who weaves their fingers together as they start making their way back home? Was it Will or Jon who kissed her? How can Sansa trust Fria’s words when the man she thinks she knows doesn’t even exist? How can Sansa trust Jon’s looks when he fooled the world’s most beautiful woman into thinking he loved her?

Her life isn’t in danger anymore, no, but what of her heart?

 

* * *

 

The festivities are far behind them, the noises only a faint backdrop merging with the chirp of crickets, the hoots of owls, and the most adorable snores from the speckled ball of fur in Fria’s arms.

Jon’s not said a word the whole walk. Does he think at all about the kiss?

He’s called her pretty, even beautiful, more than once. And he can’t see her as a sister. The thought of doing all this pretending with Robb or Bran makes her stomach turn and yet Jon performs without difficulty. He even enjoys it, doesn’t he? At least he’s hinted at it. She glances at him through the corner of her eye. Could he love her? Has he been tortured all along, hoping that she’d finally understand herself and take the first step? Perhaps fun is all he wants. It’s what many men want. But would that be enough for her? It could be a start...

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa doesn’t realize her mistake until she’s turned around reflexively and Jon flings himself in front of her to shield her with his body.

“Thought it was you,” the sharp-nosed man says. “Been a while, though, since I saw you in King’s Landing. D’you remember me, my lady? Reckon not. You only ever had eyes for ser Loras. Did you know that whoever delivers you to the Queen gets himself a keep and a pretty lady to wed?”

Jon reaches behind him and pushes her gently backwards. “The Queen is dead.”

“Oh, I’ll be on my way then,” Sharp-nose says, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.

“Cersei’s dead. I swear it. You’ve just not gotten the news yet. So turn around and walk away and I won’t kill you--”

“You kill me? With what, your bare hands?” Sharp-nose’s mouth stretches into an evil grin as he pulls out the sword. “Hand her over, little man, and none of us has to get hurt.”

Without taking his eyes off Sharp-nose, Jon turns his head to talk to the others. “Get her home. Protect her.”

Then Jon slips his hand into the shaft of his boot, pulls out a dagger, and throws himself forward. Whittling knife in hand, Odden follows. Fria’s hand clasps around Sansa’s wrist and she yanks her backwards; a stronger hand grabs Sansa’s other wrist, gives another yank. Fria’s fingers slip free. Sansa bounces into the hard frame of muscles and bone. Arms close around her body, drag her in between the birches growing along the path. She screams; a hand instantly muffles the sound and she squirms against the palm until she can snap her teeth into the soft flesh. A growl in her ear. The taste of iron in her mouth. Release. She stumbles forward. Gets spun around by rough fingers. The sharp sting of a slap across her cheek.

“You fucking bitch.” Sharp-nose’s friend is as tall as he’s broad, meaty lips curled into a snarl. “Bite me again and I’ll punch your bleeding teeth--”

Meaty Lips crashes into a birch and then Jon’s on him and there’s no elegance about this at all. It’s raw and desperate and rough and dirty with punches below the belt and fingers going for eyes and nostrils and hair. Meaty Lips slams Jon into an oak with one hand, fumbling at his hip for the dagger with the other. She should do something--but the last time she did something Jon ended up hurt. Her hands are shaking, pale silver in the light of the moon. Arya would’ve killed that man by now while Sansa’s ever frozen and useless.

A gurgling noise. She gasps, eyes snapping back to the fighting men. A dagger sticks out of Meaty Lips’ thick neck and he sinks to the ground and then it’s over.

“Sansa,” Jon breathes out, limping over to her. Feather light, he touches her throbbing cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Am _I_ all right?” She throws her arms around him and hugs him so tightly he protests. She only lets go a little, pressing her nose into his neck and breathing him in. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into his skin. “I’m sorry you keep getting hurt because of me.”

“This is my fault. They’re the ones I mentioned. I shouldn’t known and we should’ve gone home.” He sighs and pulls away from her arms, moonlight gleaming in the blood trickling from his split lip and the gash in his eyebrow. “We never should’ve come.”

She unwraps the ribbon around her waist and presses it against his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine, Sansa.”

Jon replaces her fingers with his own. Removes the ribbon to look at the bloodstain before moving it back to his lip. “You didn’t recognize him?”

“No. Suppose he could’ve been one of ser Loras’ men, but he was right. I did only have eyes for ser Loras. I don’t remember his men.”

“Who’s ser Loras?”

“He was Margaery Tyrell’s brother. We were going to be married and I was very happy about it, but then they married me to Tyrion instead. Gods, I was heartbroken.”

“Let me guess: he was tall, blond, and blue-eyed?”

“He wasn’t _that_ tall.”

Jon chuckles at her under his breath and, sucking air in between his teeth, presses the ribbon against his brow instead. Then their hands find one another and they head back to the path, where they find Odden and Fria cuddling a whimpering Dot. They’re wide-eyed, all three of them, and Odden’s shirt and hands are stained red. Behind them lies a lifeless Sharp-nose and by his feet lies Sansa’s flower crown trampled into a heap of crushed petals covered in dirt and blood.

“Are you unharmed,” Jon asks, but the farmers only stares at them as if they were strangers.

“Pate,” Fria says then, nodding to herself as she pets Dot’s fur over and over. “We should see to Pate.”  


* * *

 

The brush with danger makes the bridge seem like nothing. Now Sansa sees the fear for what it was: a reminder of fleeing, of feeling the pull of the current and wondering whether giving in and going under would be better than being caught and getting dragged back to hell. But she survived that--she’s survived it all--and she’d survive falling into the moonlit stream as well. Jon still walks first and holds her hand, though, and after he’s jumped down on the ground, he extends his arms and catches her when she jumps too. His hands are so warm and firm around her waist, his face so close she can smell the ale on his breath and the blood from his wounds and the sweat on his skin. The miasma should disgust her, but it’s the scent of surviving together and she can’t think of a better scent.

She prods gently at the cut across his eyebrow. “This might leave a scar.”

“Aye, it might.” He runs his fingertips over her cheek. “And this will leave a bruise.”

“Thank you.” She leaves the softest kiss on his cheekbone. “For protecting me.”

The hand still on her waist tightens; the hand touching her cheek remains. Her hands still rest on his shoulders. He’s not moving away. She slides her hands to his neck, winds her fingers through his hair. His gaze lingers on her lips before returning to her eyes and she still can’t read them, can’t tell what he wants, _if_ he wants. But he’s not moving away. While Odden and Fria are out of sight by now and there’s no one in front of whom to pretend, Jon’s not moving away and the smell of him is _intoxicating_.

“I’ve been thinking today,” Sansa murmurs, sliding her hands down to cup his upper arms. “About things we’ve talked about. How men want and ladies want and I--”

Jon recoils with a sharp intake of breath, staring at her as if she demanded he cut off his own foot just to please her. “You can’t ask that of me.” He takes another step back. “I won’t.” His hand flexes, as if to shatter the memory of her body against his palm. “It’s too much.”

Shame seizes her tongue, scalds her cheeks, slashes her heart. Behind her the stream babbles happily, indifferent to the stupid girl who never learns that dreams have no place in her life anymore. Not even past evenfall.

She tilts her chin up and opens her mouth to save herself--

“Will!” Fria’s running back toward them, shouting and waving. “A carriage! A carriage! Pate! Pate’s alone!”

 

* * *

 

At the barnyard stands a smaller wheelhouse of polished oak with a Lannister red roof but no banners, drawn by two brown horses steered by a coachman unfamiliar to her. The two people waiting outside the wheelhouse couldn’t be more familiar, though, or a more welcome sight. Eyes already stinging with tears, Sansa flies into her sister’s arms and hugs her and hugs her and hugs her until Arya pushes her off.

“All right. That’s enough,” she says only to be pulled into Jon’s embrace instead.

Brienne bows her head. “My lady. I’m glad to see you alive and well.” Then she notices Jon’s face, her hand moving to the hilt of Oathkeeper. “Your Grace. Is there trouble?”

The oddest noise wheezes behind Sansa. She turns around to find Fria clutching her husband’s arm to steady herself while she gawks at Jon as if a crown appeared atop his head out of thin air.

“It’s handled,” Jon says. “Have you waited long?”

“Not at all. We just arrived.” Brienne nods at Fria. “Your boy told us you’d be home soon. Seems like a nice lad. Offered us ale and oatcakes. He’s gathering it now.”

Fria makes another odd noise and attempts a curtsy while Odden hasn’t moved a muscle during the whole interaction despite Dot nosing his neck and licking his cheek, begging for his attention.

“My lady.” Brienne turns back to Sansa. “I’ll pack your things while we wait.”

“It’s fine. I’ll do it myself.”

Sansa keeps a polite smile on her face as she leaves, but once she’s passed Pate at the door and is alone in the dimly lit house, she lets that smile die. She doesn’t take her time moving through the kitchen or running her fingertips over Odden’s many figurines, doesn’t give any attention to the knitting project waiting for her in the basket by the bed or even look at the blankets that would’ve covered her and Jon as they curled up together to sleep. No, Sansa goes through her things efficiently and folds everything in the neat way which would leave her old septa proud.

The bedroom door creaks open. She knows it’s him from his footsteps, from the way he breathes. Without a word, he gathers his own belongings, the few clothes he has, the knickknacks he’s collected. Then he dumps his satchel on the bed with a heavy sigh.

“Sansa,” he says, voice low, and she draws in a steeling breath as she turns around to look at him, holding a half-folded dress in her hands. “What happened here, the things we’ve done…” His mouth tightens, eyes harden, and there’s nothing left of the tender man whose life she’s come to share. “This will not continue at home.”

“I never expected it to.”

She returns to the dress and takes her time folding it before placing it carefully in her own satchel and grabbing a shawl she spent eight evenings working on in front of the fire while Fria shared stories about her boisterous childhood with all her sisters and Sansa did her best to share her own without revealing too much. Arya, Jeyne and Beth all became the steward’s daughters, Rickon and Bran the kennel master's sons, Robb the brother she calls Sam and Theon his best friend. But Jon was only ever Will. He didn’t exist until Alys came to the Wall.

“It’s my fault.” Jon’s voice is even lower now: a raspy whisper that sends a shiver down her spine. “I never meant to imply that I wanted… That I wanted to have fun. It’s not what I want.”

Sansa drops the shawl on the bed and puts on that icy mask so easily it’s as if she never removed it at all. “You think that’s what _I_ want?”

The tension in his face smooths into lax gaping and even in this scant light of the moon can she see his cheeks deepening in color. “Well, you were…” he says, gesturing awkwardly.

“I was trying to tell you I understand, that I can relate--and you thought I wanted you to _fuck_ me?”

He flinches at the crude word. A word she’s never used in her life. But it feels right in her mouth, the harshness of it sharpening her tone and her tongue.

“I don’t want you to _fuck_ me,” she says. “What’s wrong with you? I was stupidly thinking that if I admitted I get frustrated too sometimes, you’d finally open up to me. That you’d finally _talk_ to me because you always shut me out. And you think I was trying to seduce you? How many times do I have to tell you I don’t feel that way about you before you get it through your thick skull?”

A tremor travels through his face, top lip twitching, and he leans over the bed separating them while boring his withering gaze into her. “Maybe I’d learn it a little quicker if you stopped using me to practice on until you find a man you do want to fuck.”

Then he slings his satchel over his shoulder and stalks out, leaving her all alone in the murky room.

The band around her wrist feels like a shackle. She can’t even take it off. Fria will wonder and she can’t tell her the full truth, that she and Jon didn’t just lie about their identities but their marriage too. This evening has heaped enough shame on her as it is and she can’t carry it anymore. Her knees give way and she sinks down on the bed, staring at the shadows playing on the wall. Now she knows, at least. It was never real. None of it. It was always all Will.

She can take off the dress, though. This stupid dress she thought he would like when he didn’t even spare her a second glance. A lump forms in her throat, eyes prickling with tears, and she fights it all back while peeling the dress off her body and shielding herself with the one she donned at Winterfell, months ago now, when she was nothing but Sansa and sister. It’s not Sansa’s dress, granted, but close enough. Alys’ dress can stay at the farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. please don't kill me. sometimes love takes time. a lot of time!  
> 2\. while editing the kiss scene, winterfell randomly started playing on my playlist :') (a version of it plays during the forehead kiss. i liked that)


	18. Jon

By the kitchen table, cloaked in the faint light of the hearth and the shadows it casts, stand the farmers like two monoliths guarded by a sleeping puppy. Jon waits for a beat, but when neither of them moves or even blinks, he lets the satchel slide off his shoulder and sits down in his usual spot.

“Right. Suppose you want answers. Got any ale? I think this might require some ale.”

Another beat passes, then Fria lays down Dot in a basket by the fire, finds tankards and a pitcher she fills with ale, places it all on the table, and returns to her husband’s side as if she were a servant waiting for another command.

“Not going to join me, then?” When they still don’t move, Jon takes a mouthful of ale and wipes foam off his mustache. “I don’t know where to start. Most of it isn’t my story to tell. It’s Sansa’s. Suppose we should wait for her. That’s her name. Sansa. And I’m Jon.”

Fria blinks, lips moving without any sound coming out. She clears her throat and tries again. “At the festival, there was a play. About the Dragon Queen coming to Westeros.”

“Aye, saw some of it. Enough to know how wrong it was. Whatever you learned, it’s probably not true.”

“They said the King in the North’s name is Jon. Jon Snow. That he’s a secret Targaryen prince and the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Jon gives a joyless smile. “Suppose they’re not entirely wrong.”

Fria lets out a high pitched noise and grabs her husband’s arm. “Get the good stuff, Odd.”

“That’s not necessary," Jon says.

“It’s not for you!” Fria clasps a hand over her mouth and shoots him a terrified look. “Your Grace. You can have some. All of it, really. I just meant--”

“It's all right, Fria. And please don't call me 'Your Grace.' There’s no need for that.”

Her lips twitch into a nervous smile as she sinks down on the bench and clasps her hands on the table. From a cabinet, Odden takes out a glass bottle filled with burgundy wine so dark it almost looks black along with four small earless cups, placing the fourth at Sansa’s empty spot.

“Blackberry wine,” he says as he pours. “Strong as all the seven hells combined. Eir makes it.”

Fria sips her wine. Hums contentedly. Sips some more. Rubs at a smudge on the usually scrubbed-clean table Pate must’ve missed when he cleaned up after eating supper alone while the adults enjoyed themselves at a festival Jon should do his best to forget.

“Many years ago now,” Fria says, “can’t even remember why anymore, Odd and I supped at the Speckled Rooster and--”

“Wedding anniversary.”

“Oh, yes. We were in the middle of this gorgeous roast pig feast, weren’t we, and this carriage rolled up and out stepped the most _beautiful_ ladies you could imagine. Their dresses. Was like nothing I’d ever seen! Silk and lace and cloth of gold. And their long, red hair… Lord Tully’s daughters. And they were such sweet girls, they were, especially lady Catelyn. Was all we talked about--the whole village--for _months_. And all the young girls wore their hair like theirs and wanted dresses cut just like theirs. I’ll never forget it. Not for as long as I live. And then, a few years ago, we heard about that awful wedding. The slaughter." Fria shudders. "We all mourned her, we did. Didn’t even know her, but what an awful thing. He got his punishment, though, Walder Frey. They all did, those Freys. The gods made sure of that.”

Smiling sadly to herself, Fria takes another sip. “Alys is her daughter, isn’t she? Lady Catelyn’s daughter.” 

“Aye, she is.”

“Oh, gods.” Fria wheezes out a laugh. “If my mother knew I’d let Lord Tully’s granddaughter churn my butter for me, she’d whip me for a week, she would.”

“Well”--Odden downs his wine in one go and lets out a satisfied  _aah_ \--“I let a Targaryen king work my field. Even told him off whenever he brooded instead of worked. Reckon I win.”

They share a chuckle--all three of them--and after Odden has topped off their cups, drink together in companionable silence. Dot snores softly. The fire crackles. An owl hoots in the distance. They’ve sat together just like this so many evenings, now, like a little family. Although he’ll never admit it out loud, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to get stuck here. Properly. To pretend a little too well and see Sansa’s stomach swell with child, see a little one toddling about in the barnyard. A little one who’d call the old farmers grandmother and grandfather, and who'd call him papa.

The bedroom door slides open. Jon glances at Sansa through the corner of his eye. All day he’s done his best not to ogle her in that tantalizing dress, but now she’s replaced it with a plain high-collared garment more suitable for traveling. She takes her place, takes her cup, takes a sip. Purses her lips at the taste, eyes wide. Jon forgets himself and grins reflexively at her; her sharp blue eyes cut to him before softening with one Alys’ smiles, and it smothers his sudden flare of joy instantly.

Another drink, deeper this time, and her sleeves gets tugged up a smidge to reveal her wrist. She’s still wearing Skulda’s band.

“My name is Sansa Stark,” she says, tapping her fingertips gently against the side of the cup. “And this is Jon. My cousin and my… king.”

“And your husband,” he says, brushing the band before taking her hand.

“And my husband. We haven’t told our family yet.”

She gives his hand a squeeze before releasing it to take another sip, then she lays her hand in her lap instead of returning it to his hand.

“You took us in when we needed help and we’ve lied to you, about so many things, and you deserve to know the truth. And to tell you the truth, I have to start from the beginning. It’s not a pleasant story, but...” She sighs, empties her cup, and nods to Odd to refill it. “Seven years ago, King Robert visited Winterfell and I was betrothed to prince Joffrey. It was the happiest I’d ever been. I was to be queen one day, and give the king lots of little princes and princesses. And so I traveled to King’s Landing with my father and my sister, Arya, who you met outside--and that’s when everything fell apart.”

In broad strokes Sansa tells them all of it. Joffrey’s cruelty, the forced marriage to Tyrion, the Red Wedding, the Purple Wedding, Littlefinger and his scheming, the terror she went through with Ramsay, finding Jon at Castle Black, taking back their home, and finally fighting the dead. She keeps her composure through it all, only ever takes a break now and then for a sip. It doesn’t even look like effort. She’s as cool and smooth as the Wall, while tears have trickled steadily from Fria’s eyes ever since Sansa told them about Ned’s execution. Even Odden looks misty.

“Cersei hated me. Blamed me. She would’ve killed anyone standing in her way to get to me and I was so tired of everyone around me dying. I couldn’t stand the thought of it. All these brave men and women who fought in the war, that they’d lose even more people just to save one girl. So I had to run away and Jon offered to protect me. He was the only one who could. The only one I could really trust. And he has protected me--and not just from Cersei. It’s what got him injured and if you hadn’t helped us, if you hadn’t taken us in, he would’ve died. I think we both would’ve died. We owe you our lives and I don't know how we could ever thank you.”

Sansa pauses for a little too long, an almost imperceptible tremor in her bottom lip, and he instinctively strokes a calming hand down her back only to feel her stiffen beneath his touch. Jon flexes his hand and lets it drop.

“We put you in danger and we lied and I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, sweetling.” Fria reaches over the table to take Sansa’s hand. “I understand why you lied and I don’t regret taking you in. Not at all. We always knew you weren't telling the whole truth, didn't we, Odd? And we’ve loved having you. We’ve had a wonderful time, we have. That wasn’t a lie, was it?”

The tremor in Sansa’s lip returns. She breathes in a wet, shuddering breath and then she shakes her head and a couple of tears spill from her shimmering eyes.

“It’s been really lovely,” she murmurs. “It was lovely. Having a mo--”

As if the pain tearing at her chest is too much to bear, she curls in on herself and he can do nothing to lessen it. Nothing but feel it echoing in his own chest. This morning she would've welcomed his comfort, sought it even, but now... Thankfully, Fria flies from her seat and wraps her arms around Sansa, rocking them gently back and forth until Sansa's breathing has calmed into an even flow. They've just pulled apart when a knock comes on the door and Brienne steps inside.

“Your Grace, my lady, are we settling in for the night or--"

“No!” Sansa dabs away the tears from her cheeks. “We’ll leave now. We’ve been gone for long enough.”

The whole way out, Fria and Sansa lean on one another and as they embrace one last time outside the wheelhouse, Jon claps a yawning Pate on the shoulder and shakes hands and exchanges a few words with Odden. Then Fria forgets to be intimidated by Jon's title and throws her arms around him with a whispered, “ _You take good care of her for me_ ,” before nudging both him and Sansa toward the steps to the wheelhouse like a mama bird pushing her chicks from the nest. And so for the last time, Jon pretends to be a loving husband and helps his sniffling wife inside where she gives one last teary wave to Odden and Fria with his supportive arms around her. The moment Brienne closes the door behind them, though, Sansa slinks from his arms as if he were built from the most revolting material and she couldn't stand being sullied by his presence for a moment longer. Hadn't the blackberry wine already made him somewhat unsteady, he would've bolted out the door, gotten on a horse, and ridden all the way back to Winterfell on his own. Tomorrow, perhaps. He and Arya could travel back home together, just the two of them, but for now he'll have to swallow his pride and his heartache and sleep in the luxurious wagon meant for kings and queens traveling great distances. In a corner, next to a cask of wine, he finds a cabinet full of dinnerware and grabs a goblet, fills it with rich, red wine, and settles down on a padded bench standing between two sets of bunk beds.

“Brienne," Sansa says. "They’d never accept money from us. Would you please hide a purse of coin in the barn? Somewhere where they’ll find it in the morning.”

“Of course, my lady. You go on. I’ll catch up with you.”

Brienne heads back outside; Arya kicks off her boots and sits down in one of the bottom bunks, her right leg tucked under her while she swings the left idly, and picks at her nails. As the wheelhouse starts rolling, Sansa pulls aside the curtain covering one of the windows to watch the farm and its twinkling sources of light growing smaller and smaller until there’s nothing but empty forest road behind them. No sound leaves her and her face is turned away, but by the rigid set of her shoulders and the occasional shudder in her chest he can tell she’s crying.

Then she lets the curtain fall back in place and wipes her tears discreetly before turning around and unwrapping the band from her wrist. “Thank you. For still protecting my honor.” She tosses the band on the table. “Do you need help with your wounds? Should’ve done it right away.”

“You were distracted,” he says but neither his tender tone nor gentle gaze softens her sharp edges.

By now the blackberry wine should've hit her too and yet she finds a packet of supplies in her satchel and patches him up with a steady hand (and none of the care he’s come to expect from her, regardless of what name she uses). Once she’s done, she unlaces her boots, places them neatly by the other bottom bunk, and curls up under the blankets.

“Where are the others?” she asks Arya. “I trust you and Brienne didn’t kill Cersei all on your own.”

“Pod and a few guards are waiting for us at the Kingsroad. Reckoned we shouldn’t give the farmers too much of a fright. The rest took a ship home.”

“Who’s on the Iron Throne now?”

“Jaime Lannister. He wasn’t happy about it, but… Not our problem anymore.”

Sansa adjusts the pillow with a sigh and shifts as if trying to find a comfortable position, pulling the blankets more tightly around her body. “What happened?”

As Arya speaks of traveling south, sneaking into the Red Keep through Varys’ tunnels, and using her Faceless Man skills to get close to Cersei, Sansa’s lids grow heavier and heavier, her blinking slower and slower until her eyes are closed and she’s drawing soft little breaths through slightly parted lips. Jon’s still on the bench. His eyebrow and lip should be throbbing, even the ankle he twisted again, but he feels nothing. The band on the table gleams in the light of the lanterns casting the compartment in a soft golden light. He’s never witnessed a southern wedding, but he knows about handfasting. Bran even shared his vision of Lyanna’s and Rhaegar’s wedding one night before the dead struck. How beautiful Lyanna was in her pale green dress and delicate flowers in her hair.

Sansa never did get her flower crown as a keepsake. It lies trampled in the dirt next to a dead man. Perhaps, once she’s no longer angry with Jon, she’ll want that band after all. A memory of her last night spent with the people who became her family for a while.

 _Stop lying to yourself. It’s_ _you_ _who want it._

Ignoring that rude voice, Jon snatches the band from the table and pockets it. Then he toes off his boots and turns his back to Sansa, stretching out his legs on the padded bench. Biting her lip, Arya watches him in silence. He never even noticed that she stopped talking.

“You look very nice today. You both did. Did Sansa make those? I recognize her pretty embroidery.”

“We were at a festival.”

“Huh.” Arya nods and returns to picking at her nails. “Sounds nice. Did you have a good time?"

"I've been through worse."

She lifts her eyebrows. "You've not gotten along, you and Sansa?”

“No, we have. Most of the time.”

“But not now.”

“No. Not now.”

“What happened?”

Breathing out slowly, he closes his eyes, but it only makes the world spin and he opens them again. “We had a fight, that’s all.”

“A fight.” Arya tilts her head to the side, watching him with the hint of an amused smile on her lips. “Did something happen between you?”

Jon huffs out a laugh. “No.”

“It’s adorable, really. You thinking you can lie to me after all my training.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing his forehead. “How much has Bran told you?”

“Not much. He’s not exactly spent his days spying on you. He’s ruled in your stead, with Davos and Sam. He’s checked in every now and then, but that’s it. I know you were attacked, that you’ve stayed on a farm for a while. A long while.”

“Aye. Too long.” As he talks, he keeps his eyes on one of the lanterns, its metal perforated with tiny flower-shapes that make the light dance as the wheelhouse moves. “We ended up having to pose as husband and wife. Was easier that way. Could protect her better. We never thought we’d have to pretend for more than a few hours at a time and then we were attacked. Odden and Fria took us in and they already knew us as husband and wife and we had to keep pretending. Day in and day out and--”

“You fucked, didn’t you?”

“What!” His shoulders rise almost to his ears. “No! Never. Nothing like that. We’ve held hands, hugged, slept in the same bed. That’s all.”

“You’re such a liar. Something happened. I can tell."

Jon turns to throw a glance at the sleeping Sansa, but between the rattling of the wheelhouse and the buzzing in his ears, he doesn’t know whether she’s actually asleep or only pretending. He doesn’t even know whether he cares.

“We kissed,” he mumbles. “Tonight.”

Still like a hunter watching its prey, Arya scrutinizes his face for such a long moment he can’t help but squirm. “And what was that like? Kissing Sansa.”

He hadn’t seen them for a while, the stocky man and the tall man who’d eyed Sansa earlier that day. But then there they were, in the crowd of onlookers at the Mother’s dance, staring her down again--staring _him_ down--as everyone around them kissed. Everyone but Jon and Sansa. He remembers the rush of blood in his ears drowning out the music. He remembers the mantra in his head: _only lips, no tongue; only lips, no tongue; only lips, no tongue_. He remembers watching the men moving in the crowd, how he had to change the angle to keep an eye on them. He remembers the relief flooding him when the men believed the kiss and stopped paying attention to her.

But they didn’t, did they? Now they’re both dead and he crossed a line he never should’ve crossed.

“Pointless,” Jon says. “I thought it would protect her, but it didn’t. It only… complicated everything.”

“Is that why she’s angry?”

“Aye, it’s part of it.”

“And what’s the other part?”

He puts his feet on the floor and leans closer to Arya, brow knitted. “Can’t you just be normal? Can you turn it off? I can’t stand you examining my every facial expression, my every word, looking for something hidden. Can’t you just be a sister?”

Arya shrugs, eyes downcast.

"I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I just want to pretend it never happened. And, I promise you, if you asked her she'd say the same. All right?"

“Yeah, all right.” 

“Thank you. And don’t tell anyone. No one can know. I promised her that. We have to think about her honor.”

“I won’t tell." Arya pulls up a knee to her chest, hugging it to her body. "And… I can, you know. Turn it off. I have to. It would drive me mad if I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” he says with a tired smile.

Then he thanks her again and ruffles her hair before climbing up to the bunk above her. From here he can see Sansa’s face a little too well, the soft curve of her bottom lip, the slightly asymmetrical line of her jaw, the copper gleam in her hair. Jon closes his eyes and turns to face the wall, even pulls the blankets up so far they cover half his face and his ears. 

He remembers his racing pulse and the mantra and the men, but he doesn’t remember the kiss. His one chance to kiss her--she even gave him permission, in her own way--and he blocked it all out. He doesn’t remember the feeling of her lips against his or the way she tasted, but it’s all too easy to imagine what would’ve happened had that wheelhouse not waited for them in the barnyard.

Sansa was lying. Oh, he knows that. She wasn't trying to get him to open up to her. They might've skirted around it, but they both know where things were heading: for Sansa to be able to explore pleasure with the only man she knows who would stop at a no. Who’d stop at her tensing up, even. The only man safe enough. A man who doesn’t excite her. A man she doesn’t love, not the way he loves her, but a man who’s foolish enough to do anything to make her happy. Anything. Even things he shouldn’t do. And had they lain down together in the dark, in the quiet, in a place where nothing really counts, he’s not sure he would’ve been able to say no after all. And he _needs_ to say no. He knows that now. The little part of Will that was still Jon can’t be a part of Jon anymore. He needs to stop loving Sansa before it breaks him.


	19. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! :D
> 
> Sorry about the hiatus. I dedicate this chapter to everyone who's been encouraging and supportive, but above all else to harumscarum who doesn't actually read this fic lmao, but who _is_ reading _they tumble down_ and whose frequent commenting shows such an excitement over this pairing and these characters it made me remember why I liked writing them in the first place. So, yeah, I'm gonna try finishing this. Wish me luck! And thank you very much for your patience <3

Sansa tumbles out of the wheelhouse. The cold morning light stings her eyes, the cloying scent of woodsmoke and roasted rabbit turns her stomach, and the noise of the chatting men around the campfire grates her ears. She drank too much, slept too little, and now the world is too loud and too bright and wobbles so rudely beneath her feet. A hand closes around her own, steadying her. Grounding her. Smiling to herself, Sansa leans into Jon with a hum of contentment and breathes in deeply of that comforting scent. Jon’s warm skin and soft gray soap.

He’s always there when she needs him, Jon. Always. He’s her rock, her protector, her… 

The fogginess of sleep and hangover clears, allowing reality to slam last night’s memories back into her stupid, stupid head. Memories of their fight, of her outrageous, shameful behavior, of Jon’s rejection. Of a pointless kiss.

She’s sober in an instant.

With a mumbled excuse of having to make water, she flees into the woods, flees the gesture that no longer feels like love but like a habit that should’ve stayed at the farm where they left the rest of their pretending.

The best night of her life. That’s what she told Fria. What a joke. _I’m in love with him._ That’s what she confessed--and she thanks the gods that Fria was the only person to whom she confessed. Shame burns through Sansa when she remembers the venom in his voice, the utter contempt in his eyes when he accused her of wanting him to practice on--and it burns hotter still when she remembers how full of pity he was when he told her he didn’t want her. She lifts her skirts and runs and runs until the memories get lost somewhere behind her and the pounding of her heart drowns out the echoes of his voice and she no longer hears the noises of the campsite.

Jon must never know the whole truth. _Never_.

Panting, she leans against a tree and waits for everything to calm so she can tuck this pain and humiliation deep inside herself and hide it from the rest of the world. Hide it from herself. She knows better by now than to dwell on _pointless_ things. 

When the clanking of metal and snapping of twigs breaking under heavy feet are followed by a gentle, “My lady?” Sansa eases out a breath and lets her shoulders drop and steps out from behind the tree with her lady mask firmly in place. It’s almost a relief to have it back on, to feel a little like herself again.

“I’m fine, Brienne. I had too much to drink yesterday. I feared I would be sick, but the sensation passed.”

Brienne’s gaze lingers at Sansa’s stomach, moves up to her most likely pallid face. A crease of worry forms between Brienne’s brows. The worry of a mother fearing someone’s gotten her daughter into trouble. Sansa swallows.

“Last night, after I hid the coin,” Brienne says in a casual tone that clashes with the searching look in her eyes, “Fria gave me your dress. Said you’d forgotten it in your bedroom. I have it in my saddlebags. Shall I lay it in the wheelhouse for you?”

Sansa’s hands find one another. Did Brienne enter the cottage? Did she see the bed Sansa and Jon shared? Did she realize that they shared it? Did she see how Jon supported her like a husband last night when he helped her into the wheelhouse? Did she see how they held hands this morning? She must have and now her imagination is running wild. Perhaps someone else saw it too. Perhaps they all saw it. Brienne and Arya and Podrick and the guards and the squirrels and the hares and the deer and probably Bran too, sitting on some branch somewhere to spy instead of minding his own business.

Sansa holds her head high. “I assume you saw. Just now.”

“I did. But I suppose a brother can--”

“He’s not my brother. Everyone knows he’s not. And people love to gossip. I know how easily they can turn a mountain out of a molehill. And this isn’t even a molehill. It’s nothing.” Sansa clasps her hands tightly to stop herself from fidgeting. “Sometimes, when we had to stay at an inn, we held hands. To make it seem as if we were married. He could protect me better as a husband.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

Brienne’s voice is all too soft, her eyes all too soft, and all that softness tugs at Sansa’s mask, begging it to drop, begging her to crumble. But she will not. She refuses, fusing that mask to her skin so that Lady Stark smothers the little girl who never learns.

“It became a habit. Holding hands around others. That’s all. I don’t want _any_ gossip.”

“Only Pod and I noticed, my lady. Neither of us gossips.”

“No, I should hope not.”

Despite Sansa’s haughty tone, Brienne keeps that empathetic look on her face and it's oh-so-tempting to open up and accept the shoulder to cry on she knows Brienne would offer, but Sansa walks away without crumbling. She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell. What is a little heartbreak compared to everything she’s survived? By the time they reach Winterfell, she’ll be over this and she’ll be over Jon.

 

* * *

 

 

They return to a boisterous campsite, where a bright-eyed and flushed Podrick tells a laughing audience about how he once tried to grill a whole rabbit, innards, fur, and all, and almost started a forest fire in the process.

“I’m just happy he didn’t set _himself_ on fire,” Brienne says as she accepts a skewer of grilled (and skinned) rabbit from Ricker, one of the guards. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’d have to start removing my own armor.”

The men laugh again and, grinning good-naturedly at Brienne’s teasing, Podrick pours her and Sansa water and offers them bread. Sansa thanks him with a sweet smile and settles down next to him to ask about his arm. He _was_ caught on fire after all. Not while grilling a rabbit, granted, but Drogon’s flames ate at Podrick’s arm when he saved her life during the battle of Winterfell. When she and Jon left, Pod’s arm was still covered in a poultice Wolkan promised would help the healing.

“Goes all the way up to my shoulder,” Podrick says and shows off a wide, gnarly scar that starts at his wrist and disappears under the fabric bunched at his elbow. “Maester Wolkan says it won’t ever get better than this. At least it wasn’t my face.”

Ricker dismisses Pod’s comment with a _bah_ , and tears off a chunk of rabbit meat, the juices running down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand. “Scars tell stories. And that one tells a good story. You fought a dragon to protect your lady.”

“I didn’t actually _fight_ the dragon.”

“Maybe not, but that’s what you should say when the girls ask why your arm looks like that. You should be proud of it. It’s a good scar, that. Girls do love a good scar.”

As the men start showing off their scars and telling the stories behind them (and bragging about the women it's gotten them), Sansa’s eyes shift to Jon without her permission. Still the bastard of Winterfell at heart, he’s seated a few feet away where he polishes his sword in peace instead of pulling up his tunic or rolling up his sleeves to show off. He has the best scars of all--and she knows them all by heart.

One day someone else will too. One day he’ll lie in bed with a woman and let her stroke his scars while he tells her about all his wounds. Even the wounds stitched by Sansa’s own hand. Wounds dressed and redressed by her when he was too weak to do it himself. One day he’ll sit in an alehouse and flirt with a beautiful girl over a tankard of ale and tell her how he got that nick in his eyebrow just to win her admiration.

It’s still swollen, his brow. _This might leave a scar_ , Sansa told him by a moonlit stream when hope still bloomed in her heart. When she believed she could be that woman lying in his arm, resting in the afterglow, loving each scar with lips swollen from his kisses.

Her cheek is swollen too. Last night she didn’t feel it, not with him standing so close to her that his scent filled her nose and his warm body heated up her own and made it come alive with want. Not even afterwards for the loss of Fria and Odden and life at the farm blocked out everything else. She feels it now, though, how it pulses with a dull kind of pain. 

As if Jon can read her thoughts, he finally looks up from his sword and their gazes connect and heat surges in her stomach and floods her whole body and she must be redder than the roof of the Lannister wheelhouse and her body tells her to run again, to run run run. But Sansa knows how to fight her instincts and she returns her attention to the conversation, sips her water, nibbles her bread, and ignores her cousin entirely.

The bruise on her cheek will fade--and so will these unwanted feelings. By the time the wheelhouse rolls into the courtyard of Winterfell, there’ll be no sign of either. She’s sure of it.

 

* * *

 

With Arya too restless to travel in the wheelhouse and Brienne preferring to ride so that she can keep an eye on the road, Sansa rummages through every cabinet and chest in search of distraction. She finds one of Myrcella’s old dolls with golden hair and a pink silk dress, a handful of Tommen’s wooden knights, a cyvasse board with Tyrion’s name engraved, three die bags, several decks of cards, and finally, enough books to entertain even the most avid reader for months.

 _A Caution For Young Girls_ stands out with its lovely red leather and golden letters, but after flipping it through Sansa tucks it back into the chest with burning cheeks and searches the titles for something a little less debauched. _The Seven-Pointed Star,_ while a lot more suited for a young lady, proves a tedious read and the words blur on the page as she drifts off in thoughts better left at the farm along with dangerous habits and the hopeless dreams in which she’d only just begun indulging.

Finally, at the bottom of the chest, she finds _The Edge of the World_ \--a title she remembers from her childhood. One particularly cold summer month Old Nan got sick and it became Sansa’s duty to tuck in the boys at night. While Rickon fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, Bran needed one of Old Nan’s stories to relax. So Maester Luwin found a plain old book that looked like nothing at all but contained the most wonderful legends and Sansa kept reading it, night after night, even after Bran had fallen asleep.

Smiling to herself, she grabs the book and curls up on the bench beneath the window and loses herself in worlds of magic and wonder and heroic deeds. She loses herself in nostalgia. By the time the wheelhouse stops for the night and she looks up from the page, she barely remembers where she is or why. Her troubles feel insignificant now. Silly, even. She and Jon are the ones making a mountain out of a mole hill.

After stretching her stiff limbs, she opens the door to the wheelhouse to join the others around the campfire. She’ll exchange a few words with Jon, she decides. Just enough to show him that she doesn’t care about last night’s little tiff, that his rejection bruised nothing but her vanity. Just enough to show everyone else there's nothing gossip-worthy about them at all. Then everything can return to normal.

Her plans are squashed, however, when she walks outside to find Jon and Arya a bit away from the campsite and engaged in a conversation that's left Jon's shoulders hunched and his body slightly turned away from his little sister as if he'll escape first chance he gets. They're fighting about her, Sansa knows. She knows it even before Jon notices her and stalks off and Arya, after shooting Sansa a tired look, follows her brother into the darkening woods to argue in peace. 

It takes Sansa longer than she cares to admit to slip the mask back on and sit down at the campfire as if nothing's wrong. She eats the food given to her, swallows the drink poured for her, and engages in the smalltalk offered her, but when she returns to the wheelhouse she can’t quite say what she ate or what she drank or to whom she spoke. All she remembers is that Jon and Arya returned halfway into supper, that he sat with the rest of them this time but wouldn’t speak, and that he glanced at her at least twice. And Arya took in all of it. Of that Sansa was painfully aware.

 

After lighting the lanterns in the wheelhouse, she picks up _The Edge of the World_ and tries losing herself again, but no matter how hard she tries she can't retain a single word she reads.Her thoughts keep returning to Jon and his strange behavior. 

Why wouldn’t it be strange, though? He knows now that she wants him--perhaps he even suspects that she loves him. He must be scared that every act of kindness would be misinterpreted by her as encouragement. When she was married to Tyrion, whenever they’d had a good day together, whenever they had shared a laugh or a secret, he would look at her expectantly, as if he were waiting for her to finally be ready to share his bed and be his wife properly, while all she wanted as a friend.

With a deep sigh, Sansa lays the book on the table and hides her face in her hands. She must speak to Jon, make it clear that she expects nothing. They’re adults. They should handle this like adults and they should handle it now before this growing chasm between them becomes impossible to bridge.

Determined, she heads to the door only to step back when it opens on its own. Arya walks inside with Jon shuffling behind her, his eyes locked on his feet.

“I’d like to play cards,” Arya says, opening the cabinet that contains plates and cups. “Should be a few decks in the chest.”

Jon sighs. “I’m tired and I’d like--”

“I don’t care.” Arya places three goblets on the table and corks open a bottle of Cersei’s favorite red. “I’ve not seen you in months. We’re having a nice family evening, all three of us, whether you want to or not. Sit down.”

Jon eyes the empty spot next to Sansa for what can only be a breath or two and yet it feels as if he stands there for an hour, hesitating. Then he grabs the pillows from the free bunk, drops them on the floor, and sits. Sips his wine. Stares at Arya’s hand as she cuts the deck and hands out cards as though he fears Sansa will throw herself at him if he as much as glances at her.

At first they play quietly, the scrape of metal against wood whenever one of them drinks rumbling like thunder in the heavy silence, but soon Arya breaks it unceremoniously by telling them about Winterfell during their absence. Bran is competent in his new role but longs to visit Meera, Sam and Gilly are having a baby and discuss moving to Horn Hill, Gendry followed the Free Folk to the Castle Black to teach them how to make better steel, and the Hound joined him after developing an odd friendship with Tormund (even though he grumbled about it as if someone were forcing him when it was his choice all along). She tells them about her own plans of going to Castle Black to learn how to fight like a wildling and that has Jon sharing what little he knows and even talking about the fist-fight they witnessed at the festival. And soon, by the magic of Arya’s easy attitude and cards and wine, the three Starks finally find their rhythm and get the conversation flowing and the evening becomes pleasant, even enjoyable. But no matter how relaxed Sansa feels and Jon looks, neither shares their most private memories. Arya might get some anecdotes about life at the farm, about their travel there, and about their day at the festival, but she never learns about the mud fight or the embrace in the hot springs or their cuddle on the porch the night they had the farm to themselves. She never learns about Sansa sitting on his lap or their snuggling in bed or their whispered conversations at night under a spruce or in an inn or in the bedroom of two strangers who became family.

No one will ever know about those memories, but Sansa will carry them like treasures in her heart and she hopes that, even though they don’t mean to Jon what they mean to her, he will do the same. She hopes that they at least mean _something_. 

“And here I was,” Arya says, “thinking lady Sansa was miserable the whole time, having to work on a farm and all.”

“I wasn’t miserable at all,” Sansa says and Jon watches her with warm eyes and a hint of a smile on his lips, and she thinks that it did mean something. A respite from the harsh life he’s led the past few years. He needed that affection and care just as much as she did. But Arya and her hawk-eyes are there and Sansa doesn’t allow herself to return Jon’s smile lest her sister reads something into it. Instead she focuses on her cards as she speaks. “I used to think the only way I could be happy was to marry a handsome prince and have his babies. To wear pretty clothes and be surrounded by pretty things. To have servants fill my plate with the finest foods. But now… Life at the farm was simple, somehow. The work we did, fulfilling. I can’t explain it.”

“You see the result,” Jon says. He hasn’t spoken in a while and his voice sounds raw, gravelly. He clears his throat and wets it with more wine. “You bake your bread and eat it. Plant your seeds and watch them grow. Collect your eggs and boil them for breakfast. And when you go to bed your body might be aching but your mind…”

“Your mind is quiet,” Sansa murmurs.

“Aye, it’s quiet.”

“You were spoiled.” Arya scoffs at them, drains her goblet, fills it up, tops off theirs. “You got to sleep in a bed instead of the floor and no one whipped you if you made a mistake. No one whipped you if _they_ made a mistake and decided to blame you for it. Life isn’t easy at a farm, they made it easy for you. They coddled you. You have no idea what it’s like to be lowborn.”

Then she launches into stories about her time at Harrenhal, stories that should be horrifying but Arya somehow makes amusing, and Jon and Sansa laugh so hard they forget about the card game and the tension that never quite goes away.

This is what she always imagined after Arya and Bran came home. That once Jon was home too, they’d all spend their evenings together like this, laughing and sharing stories and growing close again. That they’d be a family. But when Jon returned there was no time for anything but war and politics and then he and Sansa had to flee. Now, though…

They don’t have to wake up tomorrow and slip back into that awkward dancing where they follow different melodies with different rhythms. If they were so good at pretending to be Alys and Will, then why can’t they be as good at pretending that Alys and Will never existed? That they never held hands or shared a bed or kissed under the stars one warm spring evening in the Riverlands.

Now that she’s full of wine and laughter those memories feel like nothing but a hazy dream and she is already forgetting the details.

Arya keeps talking and they all keep drinking and laughing and as the world outside grows darker, Sansa grows sleepier and sleepier. And every time she yawns, Jon yawns too, and then she yawns again and so does he and it makes her giggle and he’s grinning at her and Arya says it’s time for bed and he kicks off his boots and shimmies out of his breeches and crawls into the bunk behind him and Sansa slips out of her dress and climbs in next to him where she belongs and he scoots back to make room for her on the narrow mattress and she hums contentedly when he wraps an arm around her and holds her close and then Arya lets out a very pointed cough.

Sansa’s breathing stops, her heart stops, the whole world stops--and then Jon’s climbing over her, jumping into his breeches and shooting out the door.

Arya’s sitting on her bunk, one boot on the floor and the other still in her hand, watching her sister with round, horrified eyes.

“Not a word,” Sansa says.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Arya shoves her feet back into her boots, laces them up. “I shouldn't have insisted. I only wanted us to have--”

“I don’t want to talk about this. Not _ever_. Do you understand me?”

 

Eyes downcast, Arya nods, picks up the boots Jon left behind in his hurry to get away, and heads outside. Once the door has closed and Sansa's alone again, she knows without a doubt that tomorrow she'll wake to Jon being gone and the time at the farm doesn’t feel like a hazy dream at all but a nightmare she can't escape.

She has to wake up, she _needs_ to wake up, but all she can do is curl up under the blankets and fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

“His Grace wanted to return home as quickly as possible, to relieve his brother of his duties,” Brienne says the next morning when Ricker wonders where the king and his little sister went.

Sansa says nothing, asks nothing. She hides in her books during the day, quiets the noise in her head by asking the guards a thousand questions about their lives during meals, and goes to bed while the wheelhouse is still moving to let its rocking lull her into sleep.

The days drag by and yet they’re a blur as if they whooshed past her. Suddenly they’ve crossed the Neck and they’re in the North and a thunderstorm catches them off guard. The wheelhouse gets stuck in a muddy stretch of the Kingsroad and for the second time in her life, Sansa finds herself cold and wet inside the Water Hammer. It’s brimming with people fleeing the torrent outside, and just like the evening at the Speckled Rooster, everyone’s curled up on benches and against walls, catching some shuteye. All the rooms are taken. Sansa’s glad for it. She’d much rather sit out here, squeezed between Brienne and Podrick, than lying alone in a bed that reminds her of Jon, of the marriage that wasn’t real, of the love that wasn’t real.

How can the loss of something she never had be so painful?

“My lady. Can’t sleep?” Podrick watches her with a rare sympathy for a man, one where she doesn’t feel as if he expects or wants anything from her just because he showed some care. He’s only kind, like Brienne is kind. Sansa shakes her head, smiling. “I can sing for you, if you like? I sing for lady Brienne sometimes when she can’t sleep. Even though she’d never admit it.” He grins at his lady, who’s sleeping the first shift and is dozing next to Sansa. “What’s your favorite song?”

She can’t think of anything at all and lets him choose. And as she sits in a dimly lit inn, surrounded by people ready to protect her, listening to Podrick’s gentle voice accompanied by the rain beating a rhythm against the roof, she knows that Jon made the right decision when he left her. If he’d been with her now, if he’d been the one sitting by her side…

_Stop it. Stop thinking. Stop._

When she returns to Winterfell she must keep her distance until her impulses are no longer guided by the dangerous habits they formed. She must keep her distance until she can sit as close to him as she sits to Podrick and feel what she feels now: absolutely nothing. 

 

During the night the storm passes and by paying well, they get the help they need to get the wheelhouse back on the road by noon. The following day she starts shivering, an ache spreading in her body, and a few days after that the coughing comes along with a fever, and the wheelhouse thunders down the Kingsroad toward Winterfell and its maester while Sansa’s bundled up in her bunk, gliding in and out of feverish sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sansa tumbles out of the wheelhouse. The cold morning light stings her eyes and the noise of workers grates her ears and the brisk northern air chills her to the point of teeth-chattering. She tugs her cloak tighter around herself and steps forward, the world wobbling so rudely beneath her unsteady feet. An arm winds around her back and then she’s scooped up in strong arms and she rests her head against Jon’s shoulder with a hum. Her rock. Her protector. He’s always there when she needs him and she smiles into his neck and breathes him in and he smells all wrong.

Sansa forces an eye open and sees a beardless jawline. Podrick.

“Where’s Jon?” she murmurs, but her hoarse voice gets lost in the booming of Pod’s footsteps echoing in the hallway and he must’ve thought she said Brienne for he only replies, “She’s sick too. Could luckily walk of her own, though."

Soon Sansa is in her chambers and Podrick’s replaced by Vanna, one of her handmaidens, who helps her out of her clothes and into a nightgown and then Sansa floats on clouds that smells like freshly washed linen and eiderdown. Kind hands touch her forehead, press against the inside of her wrist, examine her throat. She’s burning up and dizzy and everything moves in a flash. Medicine and soup passing her lips. Washcloths dabbing her forehead. Murmured voices filling the quiet room. Vanna, Wolkan, even Arya. But never Jon’s voice. Never Jon’s touch. Never Jon.

Where is he? He should be here, fussing over her, the way she fussed over him day after day when he was injured. He should run his fingers through her hair and kiss her temple and hold her close until she falls asleep. But he doesn't come and then all her visitors leave her and she's all alone in a bed a thousand miles wide. A bed cold and empty and quiet. Gods, it's quiet. At least the wheelhouse always rattled but in her bed chamber all she can hear is the absence of Jon’s breathing.

She's never felt lonelier.

Shivering, she slips out of bed and drags herself across the cold floor to rifle through her bag until she feels soft wool against her fingers. The shawl she knitted in Fria's kitchen. Sansa lifts it to her face and breathes in so deeply she coughs. After catching her breath, she tries again. It smells of quiet evenings on the farm, that shawl, of safety and family, of soft gray soap.

She crawls back into bed and wraps the shawl around one of her pillows and lays it next to her body. She's not going to cry--she's not--but cuddling the pillow close, she buries her nose in that comforting scent and allows herself to pretend.


	20. Jon

He sits on the desk, one foot dangling, and taps his fingers against the polished surface. Sighs. Walks to the mantelpiece, adjusts the knick knacks placed there two days ago that he’s moved around ten times since then. Sits in the rocking chair standing by a knitting basket full of yarn and knitting needles, moving back and forth once, twice, up again. Shifts the tin vase on the small table beneath the window so that the sunlight hits the bouquet of wildflowers perfectly. Poppies, cornflowers, ox-eye daisies, buttercups, lupins in pink and purple, and other flowers whose names he doesn’t know. He just picked whatever was pretty or smelled good to chase away the mustiness of winter from a chamber that’s stood unused for far too long.

The door creaks open and he spins around with his breath hitched. It’s been days since he last saw her, longer still since they last spoke, and his scorching blood rushes to his cheeks while his heart tumbles about in his chest at the mere sight of her. 

She looks like herself again, her hair falling over a high-collared dark gray dress cinched at the waist with a broad leather belt where she’s secured the needle-shaped end of her circle necklace. The only trace left of Alys is the gray shawl around her shoulders, one she worked on during evenings in front of the fire with Fria while Jon played cards with Odden and Pate. Evenings of homey family life that sometimes had him wishing they’d be trapped forever. (That sometimes didn’t make him feel trapped at all.)

“Maester Wolkan said you wanted to see me,” she says, taking in the room as she traipses inside, and as she steps into the light slanting in through the window he notices that she’s a little thinner, a little paler, her skin translucent enough that he can see the delicate lacework of her veins fanning out from her temples.

She’s a little unsteady on her feet, too, but Jon balls his hands into fists and squashes the impulse to rush to her side and offer his arm. While Alys would’ve leaned on him with a grateful smile, perhaps even kissed his cheek to thank him and given him a look that sent Will’s heart fluttering while Jon’s broke, just a bit, Sansa Stark would reject him. Even in here, where they’re alone. (Especially in here.) 

They shouldn’t be alone at all, really--he’s taken great care in avoiding it--but when he asked Arya to show Sansa the office he’s prepared for her, Arya just looked at him and said, “Don’t drag me into your mess.” But then her demeanor softened and she added, “You can’t avoid her forever. You two need to learn how to be Jon and Sansa again and you won’t do that unless you practice. You can’t learn anything unless you practice.”

He’s not so sure about that. Distance seems a better solution. At least for as long as relaxing around each other means they slip back into a behavior that was natural and right for Will and Alys but inappropriate for Jon and Sansa. 

It’s why he fled in the middle of the night with his little sister chasing after him. It's why he watched from a distance as Podrick scooped up lady Stark and carried her to her chambers. It’s why he only let out a perfunctory protest when Maester Wolkan recommended the king refrained from visiting his cousin lest he got sick too, and dutifully avoided visiting her (even though he inquired after her health daily). 

As she once told him on a dusty Kingsroad before everything got this bleeding complicated, she has handmaidens to fuss over her. Guards to protect her. She has Brienne and Podrick. She doesn’t need Jon anymore and he doesn’t need this ache in his body that only having her back in his arms could heal.

Jon clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes?” Her voice pulls him out of his musings, and he finds Sansa looking at him expectantly. “What is it?”

“Uh... How are you?”

She inhales deeply, pulling the shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she exhales. “I miss Fria and Odden--I do--but it’s good to be home. To be Sansa Stark. I barely knew who I was anymore, but I’m starting to feel like myself again.” She closes her eyes, nodding. “I finally feel like myself.”

Jon’s eyes drop to his feet. He’s back in the fine leather of a king instead of the scuffed up boots Will wore. Boots worn by riding across the continent, by working the field day after day. Boots that had soaked up the blood of both himself and their different attackers. He’s back in the fine leather of a king and yet he’s rarely felt less like one and more like a bumbling peasant hemming and hawing before a beautiful princess.

“No, I meant… Are you feeling better?”

She looks at him as if he’d asked her whether snow is cold and wet, and he waits for her to ask him why he never visited, has the excuse ready on his tongue, has rehearsed it a thousand times, is even prepared to point out that Vanna got sick too from taking care of her lady, but Sansa says nothing and so neither does he.

He always was a coward when it came to her.

“This used to be Mother’s office.”

“Aye. Thought you’d like that. Most of her things were gone, but that rocking chair. It was hers.”

Sansa nods, nudging the armrest gently and watching the chair move. It’s a beautiful piece of walnut wood with trouts and water lilies carved into the frame of the curved backrest. A nameday surprise from Father to Lady Stark, something to remind her of home, where she could knit or sew or read stories to little Sansa. Even after all these years, Jon still remembers Lady Stark’s soft smile, the tears glittering in her eyes, the love shining in them, when she thanked her husband. He remembers how he decided he’d one day do the same to his own lady wife, surprising her with something beautiful and seeing her shine.

He was just a boy, then, unaware of what his bastardy meant and innocent enough, still, to expect things he'd never have.

“So this is to be my office, then?”

Jon rubs at the scar above his eye. “Aye. It’s time you had your own.”

While he was gone she used his. Something he understood would happen and yet, when he returned, he was thrown by the scent of rosewater lingering in the air and the long strands of red hair lingering on his chair, and how those little signs of her presence reinvigorated the love for her lingering in his heart. He’d hoped distance would end it--just as he does now--but it never truly did.

He’s not just a coward when it comes to her but an idiot too.

She turns her attention to the bouquet and runs her finger along an ox-eye daisy, one of the petals loose enough that it flutters to the floor, and it conjures an old memory of Arya running through a field of flowers and tall grass, laughing and shrieking with Robb and Bran, while Sansa, Jeyne, and Beth were plucking the petals off a daisy one by one as they giggled about boys. _(He loves me. He loves me not.)_ It conjures a memory of Will handing his wife a bouquet of yellow spring flowers and getting a beautiful, blushing smile in return when this Sansa, the real Sansa, only looks at him with a faint crease between her brows. He doesn't need to pick petals off a flower to know how she feels about him. She's told him, over and over and over, and she keeps telling him even now.

“Did you pick these?”

“I didn’t know your favorite flowers, but I--”

“No. Suppose you don’t know me very well.”

She says it casually, but he’s too focused on her voice to miss the slight emphasis on _me_. 

Will knows Alys’ favorite flowers--he knows her favorite everything--but how well does Jon truly know Sansa?

“You should’ve had someone else pick them.” She sits down by the desk, stroking her fingers along the polished surface before laying her hands on the armrests of the chair. “You’re not my brother anymore. You’re my cousin and my king. My _unwed_ king and if the king picks an equally unwed lady flowers there will be talk. So unless you’ve decided to court me and this”--she indicates the room with her hand--”is some grand romantic gesture, you should’ve had servants do it all.”

She says it as if Jon courting her would be as ridiculous as a bird doing a mating dance before a shadowcat, when he’s a northern king and a Targaryen prince, and good enough for any lady. (Any lady but her.)

“Sansa, I don’t think anyone cares that I--”

“You don’t know what it’s like for ladies. How people talk. How they see you. If you wanted me out of your office, I could’ve done this myself. It _is_ my castle.”

“You were sick,” he says to his feet. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Brothers can be nice. Cousins should be mindful of how their actions can be perceived--and kings even more so.”

He presses his lips together, nodding. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Good,” she says, but nothing about this feels good at all. 

He hardly expected exuberant gratitude--everything’s too infected for that--but he didn’t quite expect this frostiness either, was unprepared for the way her voice chills him like a winter gale and her gaze burns colder than ice. The impulse to snark out that he deserves a thank you hits him, but he smothers that like he smothers every other impulse around her, and only offers her a curt, “I have petitions,” followed by a polite bow. Then he turns to leave the room--to leave her--with brisk steps.

“I’m no longer invited.”

Jon stops, closes his eyes with a sigh, turns back around. “I wasn’t sure you felt well enough yet.”

“And it’s so difficult to ask.” She tilts her head to the side, sizing him up like a fighter eager to spar with honed blades. “Are you worried I’ll undermine you?”

Jon focuses on his breathing, in and out in a calm, steady pace. Her mood is sharp and hungry and he feels it too, that hunger for biting words and withering looks, for resentful thoughts to taste the air, for hate and spite and bitterness, but their fighting never lead anywhere but to tension he only knew one way to dispel. She wouldn’t want that. Not here where they can’t hide behind make-belief and pretend consequences never come.

But at the farm… Oh, at the farm she would’ve let him. 

Sometimes (always)when he tries to fall asleep, he closes his eyes and returns to the farm and makes different choices. Selfish choices. He forgets about tomorrow and pulls her in close, kissing her lips, her neck, the hollow of her throat, and breathes filthy words into her ear as he makes her shudder with his fingers. He offers up his body and lets her explore and learn, even though he knows she’ll end up using that knowledge with someone else one day. Someone she loves. Someone who becomes her husband for true. He gives and gives and gives because at least it’s better than nothing.

At least it would’ve meant sharing that shame, but now she carries it all alone for only she revealed that she wanted it. She doesn’t know he wanted it too, can never know just how badly he wanted it. Wants it.

“You’re not even listening, are you?”

He tears his eyes off the window he can’t even remember looking at and returns his gaze to Sansa. She’s standing now, barely a few feet from him, and he has no idea for how long she’s been talking while he’s daydreamed about her body and all the ways he could please her like the twisted thing he is.

He drags a hand over his mouth. “I’m listening.”

“What am I to you?”

He tries to swallow but his mouth feels like he’s lapped up the entire Dornish desert. “What?” he croaks out.

“What am I, _Your Grace_?”

Jon stares dumbly at her, his thoughts racing to places better left abandoned.

“You’ve never even considered it, have you. What role I should play at your court.” She’s never given him a colder look. It’s almost impressive. “I’m just your little sister who should sit prettily by your side while you rule. That’s what you want, isn’t it.”

“Didn’t we just establish that you’re _not_ my sister?”

She regards him for a beat before looking away, toying with the fringed hem of her shawl as she speaks almost more to herself. “We had all that time together and we wasted it by playing childish games when we should’ve discussed _this_. How _you’ll_ rule from _my_ castle.”

Jon swallows thickly. “You want me to leave, then. To find my own seat.”

It takes her a moment to look back at him and he can’t decide which answer he’d rather hear from her lips.

Both Davos and Sam have danced around this subject, with Jon as a most unwilling partner. “There are so many empty keeps,” they’ll say and let the rest of their sentence hang in the air, ready for the plucking, but Jon keeps his hands to his sides and pretends he doesn’t understand. He won’t leave Winterfell--he won’t leave his _family_ \--not unless Sansa tells him to leave. And maybe she should.

Would she, though? Would Sansa Stark throw out the boy her father sacrificed his honor to protect? She opens her mouth to speak and Jon braces himself for the answer.

“You need advisers,” she says and a breath of relief (of disappointment) rushes out of him. “I know this isn’t how it was usually done in the North, but you've already broken tradition by naming Davos as your Hand and I think it’s time you had a proper council. You need more people than Davos. He isn’t even a Northerner. You should ask Bran and one or two of the lords or their sons. Maester Wolkan, of course, and Sam. Perhaps even Brienne." She pauses, straightens her back. "And me. I should be one of your closest advisers. I have experience and a good relationship with all the Northern families.”

“I know you do. But if you want to be my adviser, you can’t question me in front of others. Davos never would.”

“He doesn’t have to. You actually talk to him in private instead of springing your decisions on him in front of everyone. But perhaps you think I have nothing to offer? That inviting me to your meetings would be a waste of time.”

“Of course I don’t think that. You have plenty to offer.”

She searches his eyes as though she expects to find deceit therein, but Jon has nothing to show her but the truth and he stands still until she’s looked her fill. Until, finally, she thaws with a soft exhale.

“Then treat me like it,” she says, her voice like a summer breeze. “Treat me like it, and I’ll treat you like a king.”

Jon can't help but breathe out a small chuckle. “You will?”

“Well, when we’re in official settings. The rest of the time, you’ll just be Jon to me.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way," he says, blinking softly at her.

“Does that mean I’m on your council?”

“Aye, you’re on my council.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Good.”

She doesn’t break eye contact right away and he allows himself to stay in that moment for just a breath or two, to soak in the warmth in her gaze, to reflect it. Her shoulders drop a touch and some color return to her cheeks, and he imagines that she does the same, that they’re both letting some of the fractures in their relationship heal. 

Then he pulls open the door for her and they leave the room together and he indicates the hallway before them by holding out his hand with a bright, “Shall we?” because this _is_ good. It feels good, as if they’ll make it all work without complicating anything. As if they will start anew.

But then Sansa misunderstands the gesture and takes his hand reflexively and somewhere in the castle someone laughs loudly enough that the echoes reach them and Sansa recoils, retreating into the cold again, slipping back into the armor of Lady Stark. Searching for prying eyes, for whomever laughed, her gaze flits around like a nervous moth while the healthy rosiness of her cheeks deepens into the color of blood and the healed fractures in their relationship crack open, wider than before.

“Sansa, I didn’t--” he starts, but she flinches at the mere sound of his voice and he just stands there with his mouth dropped open as she walks away from him, each clack of her heels against the flagstones like a slap hitting him across the face. 

She told him he doesn’t know what it’s like for a lady, but he does know. If people notice their little touches, if people get any reason at all to speculate, they will. And soon that speculation will grow into rumors about how Lady Stark fucked the king during their travels, and then she’s the one who’ll bear the shame, not him. Half the North knows he’s fucked at least two women without marrying them and no one cares. All of Wintertown knows Robb and Theon fucked the whores at the Smoking Log and no one cared. People believed his father cheated on Lady Stark and no one cared. Robert Baratheon pawed at Heddla in front of everyone--even his own wife--at the feast a thousand years ago and no one cared. And Jon’s a Targaryen. He’s almost expected to want his own blood.

But Sansa… They’d whisper behind her back, stirring up old rumors about Ramsay and Tyrion and Joffrey and Littlefinger, and every rumor would be treated as truth. She’d be called whore and dirty and ruined--and who’d want to marry her then? Who’d want to marry the king’s discarded mistress who probably fucked Littlefinger for his armies after being wed twice to enemies of her house? Only someone who’s after her castle and the heirs she could give him. Someone who wouldn’t respect her or treat her well.

It was Jon’s responsibility to protect her _and_ her honor, and instead he took advantage of her need for comfort and affection and tarnished that honor. He’s the one who took her hand in front of the guards and Brienne and Podrick. He’s the one who crawled drunkenly into her bunk and tucked her close when she joined him in front of Arya. He’s the one who picked her a bouquet of flowers like a besotted fool hoping for a smile. He’s the one who held out his hand just now without realizing it could be misinterpreted.

He _knew_ they were about to risk growing too comfortable with each other’s bodies and yet he let it happen. Because he loves her. Because he’s selfish. Because he’s weak.

Jon heaves a sigh, his chin dropping to his chest. Something small and white lies on the floor by his feet, and he sinks down to examine it. The petal that fell, and must've been carried from the room by the draught or his boots or her skirts. It was Waymar Royce, wasn’t it, the man whose affections they were trying to determine that sunny summer’s day so long ago. A highborn man joining the Night’s Watch. “A black knight of the Wall,” Sansa called him with a breathless voice and stars in her eyes, and Jon decides that’s a memory better left unexamined. He drops the petal and follows his cousin down the hallway, a good distance away.


	21. Jon

In the sun-drenched courtyard, the orphans of Wintertown nibble on wild strawberries they’ve strung on stems of meadow-grass. While seasons once lasted for years, nature celebrated the Night King’s demise by shrugging off the thick blanket of winter, bursting through spring, and landing in a clear-skied summer. Now the fields show off their colorful bloom and the woods grow rich with berries and the children wear short sleeves and scrubbed knees and freckles on their dirty noses.

As always, Arya walks among them, chatting and joking and ruffling their hair while they gaze adoringly at her and laugh so hard at her jokes they clutch their tummies. When she and Jon returned to Winterfell, the children flew to her before she’d even dismounted, and shouted about sword training and tree climbing and horse riding. “They needed someone to look after them,” she said with a shrug when Jon gave her a surprised look. He never took her for the nurturing type, but she sees herself in those children, he supposes. Motherless, fatherless, penniless, at the mercy of spoiled lords and ladies who never could understand their plight.

A farmer follows her around, worrying his tattered hat and engaging in smalltalk Jon can’t hear from where he stands on the balcony. He knows, though, that Arya observes the man’s temper and character. The group is much smaller now than when Jon and Sansa left Winterfell. The wars took many, parents and children alike, and every so often a farmer or a shopkeeper or a craftsman comes to Winterfell in need of help, and they leave soon after with a child or two in tow. But only after Arya has given her blessing. 

From a distance, cloaked by the shadow of an awning, Sansa watches them too. She stands so still Jon wouldn’t even have noticed her hadn’t the wind played with the awning and drawn his eye to the red of her hair when the sunlight fell over her briefly. As her gaze follows the farmer, she lifts her shawl to her nose and breathes it in as if it still smells of Fria’s kitchen (when by now it can’t smell like anything but Sansa). Her eyes lose their focus and he knows exactly what thoughts she drifts off into for his took a similar turn, even though the farmer looks nothing like Odden and the child he finally picks looks nothing like Pate.

Once the two have left, Sansa heaves a sigh, hides her forlorn face behind her polite lady mask, and steps out of the shadows and into the teeming courtyard where she weaves between workers before disappearing into the godswood.

Only weeks ago, he would’ve rushed down the stairs and joined her. He would’ve offered his arm and his ear, his shoulder to cry on. He would’ve reminisced with her until she smiled again, truly smiled, but this Sansa never has a smile for him anymore, and Jon returns to his ledgers.

Through a wordless agreement they’ve spent the last few days establishing a new normal. She’s there by his side during petitions, she’s there by his side during meetings, and she stays composed throughout, never raises her voice, never picks a fight. In front of their people, she leans in close enough for him to smell the rosewater scent of her hair, and murmurs advice and opinions for his ear alone. In his office, where they’re always surrounded by others, she speaks freely and sensibly, and he treats her with the respect he treats all his advisers, listening patiently and taking their advice into account when he makes his decisions. And when dealing with matters of Winterfell--of _her_ castle, as she likes to remind him--he defers to her more often than not.

Their work relationship runs as smoothly as oiled leather over a blade, but while leather realigns a worn edge to make the blade last longer, the lack of friction between the King in the North and Lady Stark is only an illusion hiding how Jon and Sansa’s relationship deteriorates. She goes out of her way to avoid him and he returns the favor, both opting to bury themselves in work and spend most of their free time alone.

Winterfell has never felt colder--and strangely small and vast all at once.

When a knock sounds at the door, she’s the last person he expects and yet, after he tells the visitor to enter, it’s Sansa who steps inside with a bundle wrapped in linen and tied with a pretty string. While his manners still work and he shoots to his feet like a gentleman should, the shock steals his ability to form words completely and he ends up gaping at her like an idiot. Sansa blinks, a frown appearing and disappearing in a flash before she finds her trusted old mask and lays the bundle on the table, pulling the string open. 

“I made this for Odden and Fria.”

She unfurls a roll of fabric, holding it up for him to inspect, and he finds himself gaping anew.

It’s a tapestry depicting an ordinary day at the farm, with Odden whittling in his usual spot on the porch and Pate returning from the river with a bundle of fish and Fria feeding the chickens scattered over the barnyard. There’s nothing ordinary about the tapestry, though, about the way Sansa has used different types of material to bring the scenery to life. Tiny pearls for the scales of Pate’s fish. Bits of feathers attached with plenty of thread for the chickens. A blue ribbon sewn with some sort of wavy stitch that puckers the silk for the stream. Silver thread mixed with black thread for Fria’s salt-and-pepper hair. Real fur, speckled black and white, for Dot curled up by Odden’s feet. Even wispy scraps of gossamer fabric for the foliage, that move gently when he exhales his awe as if the wind rustled them.

“This is incredible. How did you have time--”

Jon swallows the rest of that sentence. Since he left her in the middle of the night, she’s had all the time in the world and it’s far too easy picturing her stripping the wheelhouse bare of fabrics she could repurpose. She always was a remarkably resourceful person. He still can’t wrap his head around how she managed to sew cloaks and a beautiful dress at Castle Black in almost no time at all. And now she’s made this, a gift for the woman she opened herself up to and allowed herself to love and now has lost, when she’s lost so much already.

She’s made this for Fria to remember them by, but what does Sansa have to remind her of the woman who embraced her as if she were her own daughter? Nothing but that shawl Sansa made herself. A shawl she wears every day. A shawl that now smells like rosewater.

“There’s a basket for Dot too.” Sansa nods at the rest of the bundle comprised of a letter and a wicker basket with a cushion embroidered with pretty greenery. “With your blessing, I’m sending Podrick today.”

“Why do you need my blessing?”

Sansa peers down at the tapestry and lifts a swath of gossamer leaves to reveal something hidden in the shrubbery: a pair of wolves, one red and one black.

Jon’s eyes sting. Flaring his nostrils, he blinks away the discomfort.

“This is for them,” she says, enunciating each word as if she needs him to understand that she’s not trying to imply anything when she’d made herself so clear by now he couldn’t misinterpret the gesture even if he tried. “We’ll never see them again, and I need them to know that they meant so much more to us than a safe place to stay. That we didn’t _use_ them. That, for a while, we were a sort of family. I wish I could’ve used materials from the farm, to give it some meaning but… I used some of Will and Alys’ clothes, at least. I explain it all in the letter, and that we’re home, safe and sound. That they needn’t worry. You can read it if you like.”

Jon shakes his head. “Can they?”

“If they can’t, Eirryk can. Do I have your blessing, then? I’d like it. They still believe we’re married and this is a gift from us. A piece of us for them to keep."

Throughout their interaction she’s spoken clearly and without hesitation or even a tremor of feeling in her voice, but that last sentence comes out in a whisper and Sansa even takes a small step back, distancing herself from him while their wolf counterparts sit closely together among the leaves like a secret, as if Sansa rid herself of the last remnants of Will and Alys and weaved them into the tapestry to forever trap them in the only place they should exist.

“You have it,” Jon murmurs. “My blessing.” His mouth twists into something he hopes resembles a smile, and he nods at the table as an idea forms in his mind. “You can leave it there. I’d like to write my own letter. I’ll see to it that a courier leaves before the end of the day.”

“ _Podrick_. He’s discreet and I trust him. And he knows. Only the broad strokes, but he knows. He and Brienne both. You can’t send anyone else.”

And with that she leaves, closing the door quietly behind her, and Jon wishes she’d slammed it. He wishes she’d yell at him. Provoke him, tease him, even hate him. Anything other than this cold indifference he can’t reciprocate as effortlessly as her, no matter how hard he tries.

Groaning, Jon rubs the tension from his brow before settling down by his desk and writing his letter. It’s not much, his little idea. A small comfort, yes, but a comfort still--or so he hopes. Then he leaves the office and finds Bran and Podrick to set it in motion.

 

* * *

 

“I think it’s a girl,” Sam says. “Gilly insists it’s a boy, but I’ve read this book about the shape of the belly and it’s a girl. I can tell. Gilly says, that if it’s a girl, we’ll call her Fern after Gilly’s mother, but I don’t know about that. If plants are the tradition, I told her, then Rose is a perfectly lovely name. Or Poppy! Wouldn’t that be sweet, little Poppy Tarly. What do you reckon, Jon?” 

“If it makes Gilly happy to name the baby Fern, then name the baby Fern.”

Sam tilts his head back and forth as though deliberating. “Suppose. I do prefer Poppy, though, or even Tansy. Tansy Tarly. Can’t go wrong with a bit of alliteration, like my sister…”

Tuning out his friend’s rambles, Jon turns his attention to another alliteratively named sister, who stands in the courtyard with the steward, discussing something or other. Still wearing that shawl. Still wearing that mask. Occasionally, she throws a glance at the children running after Arya doling out chores, but she doesn’t interact. Sansa might’ve blossomed at the farm, but now she’s closed up like a flower at night to protect herself from the wind and the rain and anything looking for shelter--and why wouldn’t she? Soon another farmer will come and another child will leave a hole in the lives of those who grew attached.

“Did Maester Wolkan talk to you?”

Jon turns his head back to Sam, his gaze following on delay. “About what?”

“Your sister.”

“She’s not my sister.”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up high on his forehead. “No, suppose not.” He nods repeatedly, the corners of his mouth downturned. “Well, she’s having trouble sleeping. Refuses sleeping draughts, apparently. I wouldn’t know anything normally--Maester Wolkan doesn’t gossip--but he consulted me about teas, you see, I am very fond of teas and I’ve been known to having troubles sleeping myself and I know a great deal--”

“Sam.”

“Right. Has she told you what’s wrong?”

“She doesn’t have to. She misses Fria.”

And she feels guilty for all the lies, he gathers, lies they still clung to even in their final moments with the old farmers, lies that mean they can never see them again, and Jon knows well how guilt and the unresolved keep you up at night. How it’s always there, lurking in the pit of your stomach, gnawing at your conscience as it waits for the dark and the quiet when it can clamber up your body and whisper things in your ear.

 _You’re the one to blame_ , that’s what his guilt tells him. Sansa had accepted that Will and Alys were sister and brother. He’s the one who changed it, who pretended a little too well. He’s the one who allowed inappropriate habits to form even though he knew the risks.

He spoke the truth when he told Sansa he fell for Ygritte before anything happened, that the attraction was there from the start, but he also knows deep in his heart that something would’ve happened anyway. That, as a green boy who longed for sweet touches and sweeter pleasures, all those nights where he curled up with Ygritte beneath the sleeping skins would’ve ignited a need the warm, soft body next to him could sate all too easily. 

Love doesn’t have to be involved for lust to happen. He never loved Melisandre--he didn’t even like her--and yet she was as tempting as fire on the coldest day of winter.

“Can’t they visit?” Sam asks. “Must be exciting, visiting a castle and all.”

_Aye, a castle--and the king and the lady he’s supposed to have married. Wouldn’t that be bleeding fantastic._

“They would never leave the farm for that long, Sam.”

“Well, when I miss my mother, I like reading her favorite poems out loud to little Sam, like she used to do me when I was little. And I gave him her thimble to play with. Makes it feel as if I’m sharing a piece of her with him. As if, even though she’s so far away, she’s here with us.” 

“I did se--”

Jon stops himself. Sam is not the best at keeping secrets--it’s one of the many reasons as to why Jon hasn’t opened up to him about Sansa or what happened at the farm--and Jon’s not supposed to do things for her anymore. At least nothing that could be misinterpreted by the people around him.

“You did what?”

Jon opens his mouth in hopes of a lie popping out, but nothing does but air. Sam watches him kindly, waiting and waiting, and then Wolkan comes like a knight in maester’s robes and saves Jon from his troubles by handing him a scroll.

“From King’s Landing, my king.”

* * *

 

 Jon waits until everyone is seated--Sansa, Sam, Davos, and Brienne at the table; Bran in his chair by the fireplace; and even Gilly, who insisted on attending, in a comfortable armchair carried in for her--before taking to the floor.

“I’ve received a raven from King’s Landing.” He holds up the scroll before handing it to Sansa, whose face pales as she reads the sprawling script on the parchment. “Jaime Lannister has invited House Stark to his coronation and the following festivities. And with the time it takes to travel... Whoever attends will be gone for weeks.”

“Whoever attends.” Slowly, Sansa rolls up the scroll and places it on the table before clasping her hands. “I take it that means me.”

“I’d never force you to go back there, not unless you want to.”

“But you can’t go yourself.” She speaks quietly, staring at the scroll with vacant eyes. “If you abandon the North and stay gone for weeks on end a third time… You can’t. Not this soon. They’ll never trust you again.”

“No,” he says, softly. “But if you’d rather stay at home, we can send--”

“Arya?” Sansa arches a brow. “Shall we put her in a dress too?”

He ducks his head to hide a smile at the rare appearance of her old self, and then schools his features before looking back up lest he scares her back into hiding. “Suppose we could send Davos and Brienne.”

Sansa shakes her head, lips tight and pale. “It would be a great insult. I'm sure ser Jaime would be happy to see them both, but we have to send family to represent House Stark. And that means me.”

“I’ll join them.” Bran’s tone is calm, his eyes blank, but by now Jon knows there’s some warmth in him still. “If we leave tomorrow, I’ll have plenty of time to visit Meera before we need to resume out travels."

“Are you sure?” Sansa asks.

“You and Jon are both needed here. And I’ve always wanted to see the capital. In person."

“Good. Then that’s settled,” Jon says. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Sam hops to his feet and, as he talks, spreads a map of the North over Jon’s desk where the others join him. “While you were away, Davos and Bran and I talked--”

“And me.”

“And _Gilly_ ,” Sam adds with a glance at his still-seated wife, “talked about all these empty keeps and what we should do with them. I don’t know whether you have any… plans?” Sam watches first Jon and then Sansa with curious eyes, and Jon watches her too through his peripheral vision while waiting for her to understand what Sam is after, but she only shakes her head while staring attentively at the map. “No?” Another pause from Sam. “Oh. Well, Tormund and a few other wildlings are staying at Castle Black along with what remains of the Watch, and we’ve decided to turn it into a trading post. To nurture the relationship between the wildlings and the North. Bran approved and so that’s already being sorted, as I told you, Jon, when you returned. I don’t know whether you’ve told Sansa or maybe Bran has, but that lead us to--”

“I’d like to teach the Free Folk how to read and write.” Gilly pushes herself to stand, her belly big and round. “We have a lot of stories and legends, and a lot of knowledge about plants and animals and hunting and surviving during the coldest winters. Knowledge the Citadel doesn’t have. And some of that knowledge has been lost already, cos the White Walkers killed so many of us. But if we taught some of the Free Folk how to read and write, we could start recording it along with our history. Make it a tradition. Make sure it's not forgotten."

“But we’d need a new place to do it.” Sam taps a finger against the map. “I’d like to build a _proper_ library. The only problem is, we already have too many books at Castle Black that needs restoring and sorting. More than I can go through in a lifetime. And with the added workload…  I’ve asked the Citadel for help and I finally received a raven yesterday.” He shrugs with a sad smile. “They want no part in it.”

“Why do you need them?” Sansa asks. “You know how to do it. If we supply leather and glue and whatever tools you need, what’s stopping you from teaching others?”

“It’s very delicate work, and books are new to these people and--”

“And they know how to sew and cure hides and treat leather.” Sansa hesitates for a beat, her eyes skirting Jon before returning to Sam. “When Jon and I stayed at the farm, I had to learn how to churn butter and cook and bake and forage for herbs and all sorts of things I’d never done before. But I learned and I got better. And I _enjoyed_ it. Learning new skills, seeing yourself improve, it makes you feel…”

As she searches for the right words, she stands a little taller, shines a little brighter, and it takes Jon’s breath away. She’s never more beautiful than when her real self seeps out through the cracks of her carefully forged armor. He could look at her forever without tiring, this Sansa he grew close to at the farm where she laughed and smiled during the day, and fell asleep quickly and easily at night, body tired and mind quiet. Content.

But then her eyes cut to him and his stupid, thoughtless _gazing_ at her, and the light in her dims. 

“Stronger.”

Jon jolts as Gilly’s firm voice breaks the silence and he squints at her as he tries to remember what the hell they were discussing.

“Smarter. Like you can take care of yourself.” 

Right. Books. Castle Black. A new library.

“If all you need, Sam,” Jon says, “are men eager to learn, we’ll find you men eager to learn. Among the Free Folk, the smallfolk. And if any lords have sons left to spare. Repairing books and teaching wildlings how to read might not be as exciting as taking the black, but at least they won’t have to swear off women.”

The men in the room share a grin Gilly interrupts by speaking with an even firmer voice: “And what about daughters? Shireen, a _princess_ , taught me how to read. She taught Davos too. There might be lots of ladies out there who’d like to teach others. And who’d like to learn! Why should only men learn from books and become maesters?”

“Gilly, dear”--Sam offers her an almost condescending smile--”you have to study at the Citadel to become a maester.”

“Why? Why can’t we make our own Citadel where women are allowed? Why can’t we repair books _and_ study them?”

“That’s not how it works,” Sam says and then he and Gilly start bickering while Jon’s thoughts wander back to Sansa and the way she lit up when talking about the farm and suddenly the solution seems so incredibly simple he can’t believe he didn’t think of it sooner.

Like Sam reads his mother’s favorite poems to his son and feels closer to her for honoring a tradition dear to them both, Jon honors his father in similar ways, like when he sits on the same slab of stone Ned Stark favored while polishing his sword or rules from his modest throne while Ned Stark’s lessons echo in the back of his mind. Lessons meant for Robb, granted, but Jon soaked up nonetheless. It makes the loss a little easier to bear, as if a part of the man he called father always stays with him.

 

After ending the meeting with a promise to Gilly to continue the discussion another day, Jon asks Sansa to stay, and as the others leave the room, she stands still and straight like a lance with the shawl pulled tightly around her.

Sometimes he thinks she knows how he feels. That she’s pieced it together since they came home. That it’s made her look at their pretend marriage, at every intimate moment they shared, in a whole new light. That the thought of it now makes her skin crawl for he cherished every touch, every kiss, every embrace as something precious, while she only saw them as a way to fill a gaping need any warm, soft body could sate.

Sometimes he thinks she knew all along--but she wouldn’t be that cruel, would she? She wouldn’t take advantage of his lovesick heart that way.

She might not love him the way he loves her--sometimes he thinks she barely even likes him--but she does love him. Just as she loves her whole motley family of blood relatives and the friends they’ve gathered along the way. A family she inadvertently pushes away when she habitually withdraws to deal with her grief on her own instead of reaching out to the many people at Winterfell who love her back.

And he’s let her. He’s let her even though he knows how difficult it is to break a habit that once protected but now only harms.

Jon clears his throat. “Remember that pie you made? The kidney pie and those cakes with the little flowers? If you want, perhaps you could make them again. Tonight. For supper. And we could--” The rest of the sentence escapes him when he notices her shocked face. “What?”

Her lashes flutter, a slight tremor traveling through her bottom lip. Then she frowns. “Why? What for?”

“I thought you enjoyed it? That you enjoyed learning and getting better and Bran’s leaving with Davos and Brienne, and we could all do with a nice family supper. Some good old kidney pie and oatcakes, like when we were children.”

Sansa’s frown lingers for a beat before smoothing out when she huffs out a quiet laugh and oh, _seven hells_ , he offended her. Alys might've donned an apron and pottered around the farmhouse, but that doesn't mean the Lady of Winterfell wants to cook a meal like a servant. Not even to show her family all the things she learned.

“Never mind,” he mumbles. “We’ll have--”

“No, I’ll do it. It’s time we all had a meal together.”

She doesn’t smile when she says it, though, and he second-guesses his suggestion the rest of the day, agonizing over whether he pressured her or made her feel like a servant obeying her king rather than the lady of a Great House making her own decision. Over and over, he finds himself walking toward the kitchens to see how she’s doing, whether she’s swearing over the pans or laughing with the scullery maids, only to turn on his heel and march back to the keep. She doesn’t need him looking over her shoulder.  


When evening finally falls, he’s exhausted with a headache creeping up from his neck all the way to his temples. He finds the smaller dining chamber decorated with garlands and wreaths of wildflowers and greenery wrapped around every chandelier and candelabra, and by now he’s so nervous the miasma of sweet flowers and rich kidney pie turns his stomach. A serving maid is there the instant he sits down by the head of the table, pouring ale into his cup, and he rubs his temple for relief as he sips and sends a silent prayer to the gods that the evening will prove a success despite it all.

Sansa already sits opposite him (where his wife would sit, but he shouldn’t think about that), her eyes wandering over each member of her family as they eye the food. There’s an excitement in her, a breathless anticipation that alleviates the pain better than anything else, and by the time everyone digs in and hums with satisfaction and showers her with compliments, eliciting a bright and true smile from her, his headache disappears completely. As does the tension constantly following him and Sansa, wherever they go, whatever they do, and even though they barely interact all evening, they both put their issues aside and laugh and talk and joke along with everyone else and it’s the happiest Jon has felt in a good while. 

He imagines she feels the same. She’s not looked this happy since the festival, before he ruined it all with that damn kiss, and his eyes move to her more often than he’d like. Often enough that Davos notices, and Jon puts down his cup and instead grabs another oatcake sweetened with honey and violets.

He shouldn’t drink. He forgets himself, acting jealous and gazing at her and crawling into her bunk and other foolish things, and when Bran elects to turn in early, Jon instantly offers to push him to his chambers so he can turn in too before he ruins yet another good moment. And still he can't stop himself from stealing one last look at her, right before he exits the room, but she's so deep in conversation with Brienne she doesn't even notice. She probably doesn't even notice his leaving and Jon slips into a sour mood, pushing his brother's wheelchair in glum silence through two hallways before Bran breaks the silence himself.

"It was a good evening, Jon. Everyone looked very happy."

"Aye, it was. I'm glad we got to spend time together before you leave and... Thank you, Bran, for going instead of her.” 

“She needs to be home.”

“She does. I’m… worried about her.”

“Yes. I suppose this is where you want me to assure you everything will be fine.”

“Will it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you could see the future.”

“I can see many futures. But I never know which one is true until it happens. I saw you go south and be executed by Daenerys, but I also saw her falling for you and she did. I saw Sansa die in a fire, right here at Winterfell, but I also saw Podrick saving her and he did. I saw Arya ride alone to King’s Landing and be killed by the Mountain, but I also saw her coming here first, and she did. All I can do is wait and see.”

“That’s not true. You interfere.”

“Sometimes,” Bran says and Jon imagines he can hear a smile in his brother’s voice. “Sometimes I only see one outcome. Like when I sent Uncle Benjen to you beyond the Wall. Or when you were attacked on the Kingsroad. Both times I saw only death and the part of me who’s still Brandon Stark broke the rules for his family. I shouldn’t, though. I shouldn’t affect the course of time when I can’t foresee the repercussions. I assume it’s why I feel… less. The Three-Eyed Raven is not supposed to love. I must be an impartial observer. A keeper of history and time. And this is what I need to tell Meera. She left without understanding. I wasn’t ready to explain. But I am now.”

“You love her.”

“I think she fears I never did. That I only ever used her and her brother. And Hodor. But I didn’t. Bran didn’t. And Brandon Stark still loves her, for what it’s worth. She deserves to know that. She deserves to know all of it.”

“And what if she doesn’t want to know? What if it only hurts her?”

Jon stops outside Bran’s chambers, and his brother turns his wheelchair around, looking up at him with sad, tired eyes that have seen too much in too short a time.

“I can’t give you the answers you seek. You understand that, don’t you, Jon?”

Jon nods, shoulders slumping. “Can you at least tell me... Have you seen a future--any future--where Sansa’s happy?”

_Where I am._

Bran does smile then, the faintest curve of his lips. “I have. But if I tell you how, it won’t happen. Interfering always means changing and I wouldn’t want it to change. She deserves to be happy. You all do, you and her and Arya.”

“And you?”

“I’m neither happy nor unhappy. I just am. Good night, Jon.”  


Bran might be ready to tell Meera the truth, but how could Jon ever be ready to confirm what Sansa must be suspecting? That all that time when he pretended to be her husband, he wished it were true. But his intentions were never to use her and her trust in him; he was only ever too weak to say no. How could she ever be ready to hear that? Where would they go from there?

_Didn’t you, though? Use her. Didn’t you use each other?_

He shrugs off that rude little voice in his ear and picks up his pace, rounding a corner and heading down the corridor leading to his chamber. His, and Sansa’s, and perhaps he should’ve expected to see her there and yet when she appears in the corridor, her hair glowing like embers in the torchlight and her eyes shining with the joy only a wonderful evening can bring, he sucks in a sharp breath and forgets how to move. He should mumble a goodnight and duck into his chamber before the sight of him dims the light in her--he can't stand being the reason for it dimming yet another time today--and still he stays. Staring at her. Waiting for her to set the tone and shape their relationship going forward after their first good evening together in weeks.

"Jon," she says, moving a bit closer. "Do you have a moment?"

Jon nods and moves a bit closer too, despite knowing that the wine she had tonight, enough to leave her cheeks flushed, compromises her judgment and that the Sansa of tomorrow might regret this interaction. But how can he reject her when she looks at him so shyly, so sweetly? How can he reject her at all?

"I want to thank you, for this evening. It was just what I needed and I never would’ve thought of it myself. And I want to say thank you for the office. I know I haven't been in a great mood lately, but I do appreciate it. All of it."

“Maybe we could do it again? If you want. A new family tradition.”

“Me, cooking and baking regularly? What would people say?”

“Does it matter if it makes you happy?”

“You’re just saying that because you want more cakes. How many did you have tonight--four?” 

“Aye.” Jon beams, looking away bashfully, playfully. “Insatiable, remember?”

He looks back at her then, still smiling like a fool, and finds the joy in her fading after all, that light in her dimming until she's hidden herself behind a wall of courtesy and politely tells him goodnight before walking into her chambers. All because he forgot himself and flirted with her like a bleeding idiot. _Insatiable_. Jon groans, leaning his forehead against the cool stone wall.

Maybe he _should_ leave. Maybe it’s time he found his own seat so she wouldn’t have to be uncomfortable in her own home day after day. So she could move on with her life and he with his.

His feet carry him to his office, where the map still lies draped over the desk. Sansa might never throw him out, but why should she have to? Why should he place that burden on her shoulders when he can make that decision on his own? When he _should_ make it on his own.

Winterfell was never meant for him.

Jon runs his fingers over the empty keeps and castles marked on the map. None is fit for a king in their current condition, but with a little time and care…  

Until then, though, he’ll do his best to make her happy again while still maintaining the distance between them they so obviously need.

Sansa was never meant for him either.


	22. Sansa

Although Ghost guards little Sam sleeping on a blanket in the shade of a cherry tree, Gilly still throws her son glances as she and Sansa fill their baskets with ripe, glossy berries. She glances at Arya too, Sansa notices, observing how she handles all her little orphans. While they take their chore seriously (picking cherries for Lady Stark to bake pies and cakes for them all to enjoy), they’re still children and rumble around and bicker and challenge one another to climb higher and higher or hang from a branch by their knees or somersault after jumping from a tree and landing in the soft grass. And whenever someone tumbles or scuffs a knee, Arya’s there to dust them off and tell them to get back at it. She has little patience for tears and those in need of comfort only get a quick hug before Arya distracts them with a joke or a question or by pointing at a squirrel scuttering up a tree.

Children are so easily distracted, their tears dried and bruises soon forgotten as they dive back into playing--and Arya can catch her breath.

“Tired?” Gilly asks as they pass her. 

Arya wipes the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. “I’m all right. Won’t cry when Pod comes back home, though. If they ask me one more time when he’s returning, I’ll lose it.”

“No you won’t. You’re very patient with them.” Gilly smiles. “You’ll be a good mother one day, Arya.”

“Not having children. At least not any of my own.”

“Maybe _that_ is your purpose. To make a home for children who need one. You could use one of the empty castles along the Wall, unless you'd rather build something outside Wintertown."

“Purpose?” Sansa asks.

“Yeah.” Arya shrugs. “After Cersei, I felt lost for a bit. My list was done and I didn’t know what to do. What my purpose was.”

“You never told me that.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Arya doesn’t need to fill in the rest. It’s written in the pointed look she gives before returning to the orphans and hoisting one of the younger children up on her shoulders so that he can reach a few cherries of his own and dump them in the little basket hanging from the crook of his arm.

Sansa never tells her anything either. Not anymore. And, true to her word, Arya hasn’t brought up what she saw in the wheelhouse. She hasn’t talked about Jon at all other than yesterday, when she told Sansa that Jon had arranged this little excursion for them and even had roped Sam into helping him do Sansa’s paperwork so that she needn’t worry about work piling up because she took the day off. A kindness, she supposes, and yet it feels like a rejection Jon sent someone else to give.

“Do you want him?”

Sansa’s movements slow to a stop, her arms heavy and useless and the basket lands on the ground with a thud. It’s half-full already, the fat berries gleaming like rubies in the sunlight. Because Fria believed Will and Alys would stay at the farm indefinitely, she often talked about all the things they’d make once the wild cherries growing in the woods ripened. Pies and cakes and preserves and wine, most of which they’d sell at the market or to the Speckled Rooster. “But we’ll save some for ourselves,” she’d say, brown eyes glittering. “I’ll teach you how to make cherry pie. Your husband will love it, he will.”

Her _husband_. Yes, she wants him. Even though she was determined to forget him, so sure she’d succeed, Sansa still wants him so much it almost angers her.

“Children.”

Sansa blinks at Gilly. “What?”

“Do you want them? Children.”

Sansa picks up the basket to hide how she sags from relief. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“I thought ladies and lords needed heirs.”

“That’s true.”

Sansa gives some sort of smile and busies herself with picking berries. Personal matters are risky topics. Even the family supper, while wonderful, proved quite the challenge. If she gives even the smallest thread for someone else to tug at, they can so easily tug too well and unravel the lies she’s cloaked herself with until she’s bared and ashamed.

Now, every time Sansa’s asked a question, she runs through a million scenarios in her mind before forming a careful answer that won’t lead to more questions or suggestions (or pink cheeks). The topic of children will lead to questions about her heirs and Jon’s heirs and to whom Winterfell will fall, and that can so easily lead to suggestions about marriage.

It’s exhausting. She can’t relax around others anymore and buries herself in work to avoid conversations about anything personal, to exhaust herself so she can sleep in a room that sounds all wrong, to avoid thinking about her stupid feelings for that stupid man who couldn’t be more clear that, while he cares for her, he’d really prefer to be as far away from her as possible.

“Well”--Gilly strokes her swollen belly--“I think you’d be a _wonderful_ mother.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Sansa says and changes the topic to the warm weather and how taxing the summer heat must be during the advanced stages of pregnancy, and soon Gilly’s talking about how the heat keeps her up at night and how she longs for rain to cool the air.

Sometimes adults are easily distracted too.

 

* * *

 

Rain does come only a few days later, and with it a drenched and mud-spattered Podrick, who rides into the courtyard to the children’s delight (and Arya's relief). The moment Sansa sees him, she tells the steward to have a tub carried into Podrick’s chambers and filled with hot water, and for ham, bread, eggs, boiled potatoes, cherry pie, and ale to be served in her office. Then she waits, pacing the room while worrying her hands. 

When a knock finally comes at the door, she’s so eager she opens the door herself, but the smile that had just begun blooming on her face wilts the instant her caller is revealed.

Jon’s nostrils flare with an intake of breath. “Podrick told me he brought gifts. For the both of us. Is that all right?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve also come to tell you I’ve received a raven.” Jon hands her a scroll when she steps aside to let him in. “Lord Hunder is visiting Karhold with his son and eldest daughter. He heard about the library and would like to visit us on their way home.”

Jon's eyes land on the food, the slice of cherry pie, and for a beat she thinks he’ll shed his King’s face and turn to Sansa with a nostalgic smile and say, “Remember when Fria…” But when he turns back to her, he’s still King in the North and she’s still the Lady of Winterfell, and Will and Alys seem like nothing but a fever dream.

“He’s a wealthy man. If he wants to help… Well, we could use his gold. But I wanted your permission before I reply. It’s your castle not mine.”

“You have it,” she says and hands back the scroll--and then all her skill and experience as a well-mannered lady who knows how to keep the conversation flowing vanish. As does the ability to share a comfortable silence with this man who once, for a little while, was a constant by her side and their silences were enjoyed rather than suffered.

Sansa pretends scrutinizing the papers on her desk to hide how she’s aware of Jon’s every movement, every glance, every sigh. How he notices the knitting project (an enormous white wool blanket) waiting for her at the rocking chair where she spends her evenings working the yarn until she’s so tired she can’t keep her eyes open; the bookshelf she’s had carried into the office and filled with books for when her aching fingers need a rest; the Tully tapestry she found in an old chest in the attic and hung above the serving cart; and the globeflowers in the tin vase, all round and buttery yellow.

What would he think if he knew she threw out the flowers he picked for her almost instantly? Would he care at all?

(What would he think if he knew she still saved the prettiest of each of the seven types of flowers by pressing them in between the pages of her favorite book as if she should treasure those flowers forever the way a lover would when he gave them to her as a brother?)  


When Podrick’s arrival finally saves them from the silence, Sansa focuses all her attention on him and everything he has to tell her about the visit as he tucks into his food. 

“She loved the tapestry,” Podrick says around a mouthful of ham. “But she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to hang it in the bedroom where she could see it when she woke up, or whether she wanted to hang it in the kitchen where she could show it off to anyone who’d visit. Then Odden said she should nail it to the door because that way even people just passing by would see it, and she gave him a swat with the dish rag.” Podrick grins before continuing in a softer voice, “He loved it too, my lady. Got all misty. And Dot took to the basket right away. She was sleeping in it when I left the next morning. Fria wouldn’t let me leave without a meal and a good night’s sleep.”

“No,” Sansa says, eyes locked on Podrick so that she doesn’t instinctively look at Jon and share a smile with him, “she wouldn’t.” 

“Would you like your gifts, my lady? I’ve already given His Grace the cane he used while injured, but I have more.”

He lifts his bag to his lap and fishes out three cotton-wrapped objects and places them on the table. Then follows a box of soft gray soap. With a gasp, Sansa grabs the box, brings it to her nose, and breathes in the comforting scent--but then she feels Jon’s eyes on her and hers snap to his without her permission as memories of her nosing at his sleep-warm skin in the bed they shared flood her mind and he’s starting to realize, isn’t he? That’s what it means, that unreadable look he gives her, observing, unnerving, as if he can see right into her very soul while refusing to give her even a glimpse of his own. 

Hardening her eyes, she holds his gaze until he looks away, and then returns her attention to the gifts and unwraps three good-sized intricately carved figurines she can’t do anything but gape at in awe. Through some magic, Odden has managed to carve a maple wood goblet shaped like the heart-tree, with the trunk as the stem, the roots forming the foot and the crown cradling the bowl, its leaves and the tears running from the eyes stained red; a perfect replica of the farmhouse with Dot sleeping on the porch and a row of birds singing on the roof; and a direwolf pack where the alpha male and female are surrounded by six pups of varied sizes.

Sansa strokes a finger down the slope of the mother wolf’s back where Odden has carved the fur to look more like fish scales. They’re all there, her whole family. Robb standing proud and a little taller than the rest. Bran stretched out while watching Arya playing with little Rickon, his fur wild and shaggy. And Jon and Sansa tucked together, her muzzle leaning against his cheek. Odden has even stained the furs of her and Mother’s wolves as red as their Tully red hair.

All those stories Sansa told them of the children Alys grew up with--they must’ve figured out who was who, perhaps with Eirryk’s help, but it still doesn’t explain...

“How,” she whispers, “how did Odden have time to do all this?”

“Well, er"--Podrick shrugs one shoulder--"it was already made when I arrived. At least those were. Didn't really ask, my lady.”

“They’re beautiful.” Sansa moves them to the mantelpiece and, shifting around the other knick knacks, makes room for them at the center with the heart-tree and the wolf pack framing the farm house as if both watched over the little family living within. “I wonder why he made these…”

“Perhaps he missed you,” Jon murmurs. “He always said the wood spoke to him, told him what to whittle, but perhaps… Perhaps his heart did too.”

His voice is hoarse enough that guilt seeps into her. She’s not the only one who grew to love that little family only to lose them.

“Missed _us_ ,” she says. “They missed us and this isn’t all for me. We should share.”

“No, it’s all right. You keep them.”

“Please. Pick one thing, at least."

“I’ll, uh”--Jon strides up to the mantelpiece and grabs the goblet without meeting her eye--”take this.”

He holds it up awkwardly and makes for the door when Podrick clears his throat.

“Your Grace, there’s more.” Podrick’s eyes flit between them as they return to their spots, a nervous smile plastered on his face. “She asked me about you. The both of you. She wanted to know… She wanted to know whether you were pregnant yet, my lady.”

Sansa clasps her hands behind her back, hard. “And what did you say?”

“I just said no. Thought it best to keep my answers short. So she gave me, uh”--from the bag Podrick pulls out a small leather pouch, and lays it on the table--”this. It’s some sort of magic with herbs and… She said to put it under your mattress. Not that--” He gestures vaguely, cheeks looking as crimson as Sansa’s cheeks feel. “And, er, she gave me this too. She said to hang it over the crib once the baby comes. That it’s something grandmothers typically make in the Riverlands. That, had she lived, Lady Catelyn would’ve made one if…”

Podrick’s voice fades away, drowned out by the echoes of Mother's voice filling Sansa's head as she stares at the prayer wheel in Podrick's hand until her vision blurs. She remembers them well, those charms her mother used to bind. For health, for happiness, for sweeter dreams when nightmares plagued Bran yet again. All similar but with important differences she shared with Sansa, telling her she’d one day bind her own--and plenty of them--to protect her family. Feathers for dreams. Clovers for luck. Straw for protection. Ivy for a long life well lived. "And stuff the Maiden with jonquils and bind her with linen," she'd say, smiling at Sansa, "for a happy marriage."

Gently, Sansa takes Fria’s prayer wheel and examines it with careful fingers. Mother never taught her this one. She must’ve been saving that lesson for when she’d bind one for real. As a grandmother.

A cruel hand seizes Sansa’s heart in a grip so tight she can scarcely breathe.

“My lady?”

“Thank you, Podrick,” she rasps out. “You may leave.”

The chair scrapes against the floor. The soles of Podrick’s boots slap against the flagstones. The door creaks open, then closes. Jon remains. She can hear his soft breaths, his soft footfalls. Can even hear his soft voice giving her platitudes before he’s so much as drawn a breath to speak when all she wants is for him to make sure those gifts serve a purpose. When all she wants is something he’ll never give.

“Please leave,” she whispers.

Jon sighs but obeys, and Sansa forces the torrent of love and loss and longing back into the dam she’s built around her emotions ever since she came home, sealing all the cracks, fortifying it. If she lets that dam break, so will she.

 

* * *

 

The dress she wore at the festival lies hidden in a small chest beneath her bed. Sansa hides the prayer wheel and the pouch in there as well as if, one day, she’ll meet an honorable, kind, and handsome lord to love and marry. As if, one day, she’ll find a use for a fertility spell and a charm for the baby it gives when she knows in her heart that chest will remain unopened until she feels ready to burn it all and leave the fantasy behind. 

(She still washes the shawl with the gray soap, though. She still snuggles up with it at night and pretends.)

 

* * *

 

Sansa weaves lady’s mantle, ox-eye daisies, cornflowers, and red clover into a crown. It feels like ages ago now, since the beautiful flower crown Jon bought her got crushed on the ground--and longer still since she weaved a crown herself for a now long-gone horse whose soft muzzle soothed her anxieties and strong back carried her toward safer lands. 

Sansa peers up at the foliage of the fat oak shielding her sensitive skin from the sun. She even sat under a tree much like this that day, didn’t she?

Jon sat next to her then. He sat next to her and he smiled at her and he teased her while she was still blissfully unaware of just how much she loved him.

Now, though, he’s fallen into the habit of arranging these days for her every so often when she, Gilly, Podrick, Vanna, Arya, and the children leave for a few hours or even a whole day. They pick berries, forage for herbs and roots and mushrooms, fish in streams and ponds, and once even spent the better part of an afternoon at one of the lakes in the wolfswood where Arya and Podrick taught the children how to swim.

But while Sam has joined them once or twice, Jon never does. He’s always at home, taking over Sansa’s duties as well as his own, and he still never tells her himself. It’s always Arya. Jon and Sansa haven’t spoken privately about anything since the day Podrick came home.

Sansa stifles a sigh and places the crown atop little Sam’s head. He grabs it with chubby hands and brings it to his even chubbier lap to explore all the petals and leaves while his mother reads aloud beside him. By now Sansa could never tell Gilly learned how to read as an adult. The words flow from her lips and, for Sam’s benefit (and perhaps her own too), she reads with feeling and intensity, and while some of Arya’s children are training with her and Podrick, others have gathered around Gilly to hear tales about brave knights and pretty ladies.

“M’lady?” Gertie watches Sansa shyly while twirling a strand of curly chestnut hair around her finger. “Can I--may I--have one as well? If ain’t too much trouble.” She drops into a curtsy. “Please.”

“Of course. Bring me whatever flowers you like and I’ll make you a crown, Gertie.”

Shining with joy, the girl darts off with her hair dancing around her shoulders, and when she returns with a basket full of flowers Sansa pats the empty spot next to her on the blanket. “My mother taught me how to do this when I was your age and it’s a lot easier than it looks. Here”--Sansa chooses cow parsley from the girl’s basket--”always start with something that has a long stem we can wrap flowers around. Go on. You too.”

Gertie nods seriously, chooses a long-stemmed cow parsley too, and with her brow furrowed in concentration, starts weaving her own crown. Then Gilly grows tired of reading and Arya tired of training, and Podrick volunteers to sing for them while they rest. And as the rest of the children spring to their feet, chasing one another and dancing around Podrick as if he were a pole to bind with ribbons, and Sansa places her finished flower crown on Gertie's head and bows her own head to receive Gertie’s flower crown, Sansa thinks that despite it all, Jon's clumsy attempt at making her happy without giving her the wrong impression is working. These days spent together with her friends and the children have been _good_ days, and Sansa thinks she could be happy. Given time, she _will_ be happy.

But then Podrick’s jolly tone softens into something sweet when _Milady’s Supper_ ends and _The Sweet Lady’s Fool_ begins and Sansa’s torn from a sunny afternoon in the wolfswood and thrust into a lukewarm evening in the Riverlands when Jon was her husband and she allowed herself to love and to want and to dream of a life together with him--and Gertie looks so much like she could be theirs, with her long curly hair and wide blue eyes...

Sansa’s corset digs into her skin, crushing her ribcage, her lungs, her heart.

It’s always like this. Whenever she thinks she’s doing fine, something reminds her of what she lost and the little happiness she's soaked up evaporates.

Filling her free-time with cooking and baking, and studying herbs and recipes, and washing her shawl with the gray soap all help her in feeling closer to Fria, as if a part of her always stays with Sansa, but it’s a hollow comfort since it's not the loss of Fria that hurts the most.

Sansa no longer has someone who greets her when she comes home from yet another excursion, and asks about the contents of her basket or what she’ll cook or bake. She no longer has someone who holds her close at night and listens as she whispers about her day until she falls asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. She no longer has someone to whom she can braid a little dough-heart and bake just for him (even though she did, once, but luckily caught herself and gave it to Ghost before anyone noticed).

Her life is so full and yet, now that she knows the joy of sharing that life with someone--the joy of sharing it with _Jon_ \--it’s never felt more empty.

Her eyes water and Gilly’s watching her again, looking for the right thread to tug, and Podrick’s still singing about love, and Sansa claps her hands together and declares that it’s time for cakes so loudly she can’t help but cringe at herself. But it works. In the chaos of hungry children, Vanna serving cakes and water sweetened with raspberries, and Arya telling Gilly about some ideas she has for the orphanage, Sansa is forgotten and she can pick at her cake and her thoughts in peace.

Not that it ever leads anywhere. The only solution she can think of is that either she or Jon leaves Winterfell--and that thought only leaves her feeling even worse.

A warm hand on her arm draws her back to the present, and she finds Gilly watching her again with worried eyes. Arya, Pod, and the children are back on their feet, playing and climbing trees with little Sam toddling happily among them, his hand in Vanna’s hand. Sansa didn’t even notice they'd finished eating. She still sits with that cake in her hand and the crown on her head, as still as a painting.

“Are you all right?”

“Absent minded.” Sansa forces her lips to smile, and she crumbles the cake into bits and throws them onto the grassy field as a feast for birds, mice, and insects. “The Hunders are coming soon. I was thinking about the menu. They travel a lot and are used to exotic dishes. I’m not sure what to serve.”

Gilly narrows her eyes, mouth twisted thoughtfully. “Before I met Sam, I almost never smiled. Craster didn’t like it when we chatted or giggled. I think I sort of forgot how to smile. But then I met Sam. And after a while I started smiling again. Still catch myself sometimes, though. When I laugh. As if Craster’s there, ready to strike me if I make too much noise. But then I remember. I am safe. I am with Sam, and Sam likes my smile.”

Gilly tilts her head to the side, her brown hair falling in soft waves down to her round belly, and she exudes so much motherly kindness, a lump forms in Sansa’s throat.

“When we first came to Winterfell, I thought you had a Craster of your own. It was like someone was always watching you, ready to strike if you did something wrong. And, I suppose, with the life you’ve had… But your Crasters are gone now. All of them. You are safe. You are with your family and your family loves you. You can smile again. You can be happy. So why aren’t you?”

Sansa takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through her nose to ease the tension in her throat before she speaks. “I’m perfectly content.”

“Then why are your eyes always so sad? Even when you smile.” Gilly scoots close enough to whisper. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

Sansa forgets how to breathe, her mouth hanging open, uselessly. _How?_ She’s been so careful. She’s always professional and respectful and avoids him when she can. Her only slip was when she and Gilly were strolling from the godswood and found Jon and Podrick sparring in the courtyard, and Jon was tan and flushed and graceful. Beautiful. Her legs stopped working entirely. Not until Podrick noticed them staring and waved at them, and Jon turned around too, did sense and the ability to move her legs return.

Gilly never mentioned it, but _oh gods_ , of course she noticed. All of Winterfell must’ve noticed. Sansa was practically drooling.

“I…” she starts but nothing follows and she just sits there, staring at Pod and Arya rumbling around with the children as if it will help spark a good lie.

Pod has a bruise on his neck that Arya pokes, grinning, and he covers it up with his scarf, muttering something at her. She must’ve been the one to bruise him. She’s been teaching him how to fight with quarterstaves, and Sansa often hears their taunting one another in the courtyard when she works, and this doesn’t help at all. All it does is remind her of Jon and his sweat-soaked shirt and the way his chest heaved with breaths.

“I don’t think he knows,” Gilly whispers. “Even I wasn’t sure, even though I’ve suspected it for a while. But you were looking at him with so much longing when he sang and all my doubts were gone.”

It takes a heartbeat before it registers--but then Sansa clasps a hand over her mouth to hold back a relieved guffaw as Gilly goes on and on about Podrick’s sweet nature, how he’s always helping Sansa, always protecting her, and what a good husband and father he’d make, and how Sansa _does_ want children she can teach how to sew and bind flower crowns and run a castle--Gilly has noticed as much--and how, surely, the North will accept him even though he’s not quite highborn enough for Lady Stark, and it’s all so absurd Sansa has to excuse herself and find some privacy before she bursts.

Leaning against a birch safely away from the others, Sansa giggles hysterically into her shawl until she’s so spent she slides down on the ground to catch her breath and dab at her wet eyes. _Podrick_. 

“What are you doing?” Arya’s shadow falls over her, and Sansa looks up to find her much too sneaky sister frowning down at her. “Have you been crying?”

“No. I just needed to make water.”

“So you’re sitting in it, then. What a lady.”

“All right. I needed a moment alone.”

“Then say so. Shouldn’t just run off. If something happens to you, Jon will kill me.”

“But you won’t care?”

“You’re an idiot. Come on.” Arya offers her hand and pulls Sansa to her feet. “It’s getting late. We’re packing up.”

As the carriage full of happy children and tired adults rolls toward Winterfell. Gilly still observes her, but let her observe, let her believe the lie. It’s far better than her figuring out the truth and it still amuses Sansa to the point of having to spend the rest of the day suppressing smiles rather than forcing them--and it's a welcome change. Her good mood lasts the rest of the day. Jon's absence in the courtyard doesn't bother her, nor does the fact that Maester Wolkan and Sam fill her in on what she missed during the day. It doesn't even bother her that, although she and Jon sit opposite one another at the table during supper like husband and wife, neither interacts with the other. All this time she’s been so worried about being found out, only to learn that she must be a better actress than she thought--and that the tension she always feels between herself and Jon when they interact mustn't be noticeable to others after all. She feels a thousand stones lighter and even hums to herself when she heads back to her office to go over her list of dishes for the dinner with the Hunders the cook has left at her desk. But then she passes Jon's office and raised voices carry through the closed door and Sansa slows her step, quiet now. Sneaking closer, she tries sussing out any words, but the sound is too muffled by the thick walls. The door bangs open. She recoils just in time for it to miss her. Arya storms out, slams the door shut behind her, and stalks off in such a haste Sansa can't keep up, despite her longer legs. By the time she’s reached Arya’s chambers, her little sister is rummaging through her wardrobe and throwing things into saddlebags in a manner that would have Septa Mordane bark at Arya to do it all over again, properly this time!

“What happened?”

Arya looks up from her packing. “What happened to _knocking_?”

“Did you and Jon have a fight?”

“Yeah. About you. _Again_.” She crumples smallclothes into a ball and shoves it into the bag. “I told him that if he needed to tell you something, he’ll have to do it himself from now on. I’m sick of being his bleeding raven.”

“So you’re leaving? Over that. Isn't that a bit dramatic?”

" _I'm_ being dramatic?" Arya throws a pair of trousers on the bed. “You're accusing me? Really? When you and Jon are acting like children! Worse even. My children are more mature than the two of you combined. So you fucked. People fuck all the time and still manage to behave like adults. It’s just sex, Sansa. Get over it.”

Sansa draws a shuddering breath, tightening her trembling hands into fists. “Jon and I have _not_!"

Arya scoffs. “Then why are you acting this way? Do you _want_ to? Is that it?"

“How would you know anyway? What it is or what it does. It’s not as if you’ve been… doing _that_.”

“That’s convenient. You’re finally interested in my life.” She shakes her head and grabs handful of sharp metal things from her nightstand and tosses them into the bags. “I could’ve fucked every man in Winterfell without you noticing, that's how present you've been lately."

“I know I’ve been--”

“Spare me.” Arya fastens the straps and hoists the bags over her shoulder. “You know, I really missed you. You and Jon. I was so happy we’d all be together again, at home, safe, but you ruined it. You ruined everything. I don’t know what happened between you or what didn’t happen because neither of you talk to me. Nor do you talk to each other. Do you know what it’s like to be in a room with the two of you?”

Sansa tilts up her chin. “We’re being perfectly polite.”

“You’re being cold! You are ruining our family and our family is all I have! It's all any of us have!" When Sansa flinches at the sheer volume in Arya's voice, at the way she moves toward her in anger, Arya falls back with a loud exhale and she takes a moment to control her breathing, her temper, before letting her shoulders drop along with her voice. "I don’t want to be at home anymore. I’m going to the Wall to visit Gendry and when I come back home, you and Jon better have sorted it or I’ll go right back and I’ll take the children with me.”

“Arya, I'm sorry."

"And what good does that do? Maybe you should’ve thought about the consequences _before_ you decided to pretend to be married. What did you think would happen? Honestly. You're supposed to be the clever one."

“I know.” Sansa closes her eyes with defeated sigh. “I _know_. And I regret it so much. If I could go back in time and change it, I would.”

“You need to talk to each other. And as long as I am home, I don’t think you will."

Sansa opens her eyes but keeps them on her feet. “I’m not sure Jon and I can ever be what we were. Something... broke, at the farm."

“If you cut yourself really badly, you just don’t ignore the wound and hope it closes on its own. You have to stitch it back together, even if it’s scary, even if it hurts. You’re good at stitching, aren’t you?”

“Not this kind,” Sansa whispers, blinking away the tears forming in her eyes.

Arya takes Sansa’s hand, prompting her to meet her gaze after all. “Then practice.”

For a beat they remain like that, Sansa fighting tears and Arya refusing to let up until Sansa finally nods that she understands, that she accepts. Then Arya gives her a quick hug and leaves her to repair the irreparable.


	23. Sansa

Arya’s words loom over Sansa, the shadow they cast slowing her movements and spreading a dreadful chill in her body neither her shawl nor the warm summer evening can chase away. By the time she reaches the balcony overlooking the courtyard, her sister is already saying goodbye to Jon. Their hug lasts for a lifetime. Podrick is there too, waiting his turn, and when Arya finally extracts herself from her brother’s arms, Podrick gets the same kind of quick hug Sansa got, and she knows that if she and Jon don’t solve this, if Arya is ever forced to choose, it won’t be Sansa she’s choosing.

Another chill travels through Sansa’s body and, shivering, she pulls the shawl tighter around herself as her eyes shift to Jon without her permission. Her stomach flips, the breath she sucks in trembling. He’s already watching her with dark eyes she cannot read and a heat blossoms in her belly and suffuses her whole self, chasing away that chill after all with ridiculous ease. Gods, she’s not ready. He still affects her too much and when Arya rides through the gate, Sansa flees the balcony, leaving her sister’s words behind to flutter to the ground, useless.

How can she ever be honest with Jon? If he learns the truth, he’ll understand what she herself only understood recently: the relief she felt when he volunteered to travel with her, to protect her, wasn’t relief at all. It was hope.

He’ll think that she pushed him into it, the posing as husband and wife, the bed sharing, the kiss, all the little things he didn’t want but she craved. But she didn’t know how she felt! She didn’t!

Though, after all her lies, why would he ever believe her again?

“Sansa.”

She stops. Closes her eyes. Too deep in thought she never even heard him following her, and she smothers the instinct that tells her to snap at him, to push him so far, far away they’ll never find another again. She needs to be as calm and cool as a windless winter morning. She needs to buy herself some time.

When she turns around, however, she finds a Jon so uncomfortable it would’ve made her smile hadn’t it been so painful how scared he is that she’ll read intent and promises into anything he does or says, that she’ll read him wrong. With his gaze never quite meeting hers, he stammers himself through broken sentences and Sansa exhales her relief when it becomes clear he’s not talking about them at all but about the fair Wintertown hosts every so often during the warmer months (or years, as it once were). As a girl, she used to go there with Jeyne and Beth to browse the stalls for silk ribbons or pretty bracelets, and listen to the bards and troubadours that so rarely visited the North.

They were never as grand as the Riverlands festival, those fairs, but close enough that hadn’t Sansa known better, Jon’s words would’ve ignited the smallest flame of hope in her chest. Hope that he wanted to take her to the fair and recreate a night that lost its magic much too soon. To make sure that, this time, the magic lasted long enough to carry them to a happily ever after. Just as she once believed, if only for a heartbeat, that he wanted to recreate a night where they pretended to be husband and wife and bonded on the porch beneath the stars when all he wanted was a family supper. Or that the flowers he picked for her himself meant their kiss woke something in him he needed time to digest, that it wasn’t pointless and he was ready court her after all, when all he wanted was to apologize for ignoring her when she was sick.

She does know better now, though. She knows not to hope, and when he finally reaches the point of the conversation, she’s not even disappointed. Lady Tylene, Lord Hunder’s eldest daughter, is an accomplished lutist who collects songs and couldn’t Sansa maybe perhaps possibly escort her to the fair.

“There are always new songs after a battle.” Jon’s smile is quick and unconvincing. “She’s eager to hear them. Thought you’d like it too.”

“And what will His Grace be doing while I entertain your guest?” She arches a brow. “Let me guess. Paperwork?”

Jon has the good sense to blush--and to keep his mouth shut.

“I’ll take care of your guest, Jon,” she says and walks away.

 

* * *

 

As a girl Sansa would often draw strength from Lady. When a spell of shyness came over her, she’d hide behind the direwolf or seek comfort in her thick fur or even use her as a way to break the ice. When overwhelmed, she’d use Lady's needing a walk or food or grooming as an excuse to get away and breathe. Then Lady was taken from her and she had to navigate the most difficult time in her life on her own and it felt as if part of her soul was gone forever. As much as she loves Ghost, he could never fill that spot, not truly. While he guards and protects, and even has joined her and the children on outings, and stays for supper to enjoy a treat, he’s still a creature of the wild who avoids commotion and sometimes disappears for days.

Like Jon, he needs his time alone.

Sansa never thought she’d once more find herself drowning in a crowd and keeping herself afloat by burying her fingers in soft thick fur. But here she is, kneeling on the ground and petting Lady Tylene’s dog Arrax, while all of Winterfell (Jon included) marvels at the newcomer.

While Lord Hunder arrived in a carriage with his son and his maester and Lady Tylene’s handmaiden, Lady Tylene herself rode into the courtyard like something out of a mummer’s farce, her violet tunic fringed with white pearls and her riding trousers cinched at the ankle with silk ribbons and her shoulder the perch for a stripe-tailed monkey. And as if that weren’t preposterous enough, the moment she dismounted, a parrot swooped down from the sky and landed on her extended arm to the delight of everyone already gathered around her. No one noticed the dog loping next to her. Even with his glossy coat dappled all shades of gray, perky ears, and amber eyes he became ordinary next to the spectacle. As ordinary (as forgotten) as Sansa herself.

She’s heard stories about Lady Tylene. She dresses like a man, wears her hair short like one (and she does, those locks of burnished gold wind-tousled and barely reaching her jawline), she travels like a smuggler, going from port to port however she pleases. She sings, and she rides, and she loves animals. She has ten cats and two pet snakes and a fawn she found abandoned by its mother and bottle-fed herself--and she’s only three and twenty.

Sansa always believed those stories to be exaggerations. Now, though, as Tylene holds her parrot closer to Jon and commands it to greet the king and that magnificent bird croaks out Jon’s name and calls him “my king,” Sansa reckons those stories barely scratched the surface.

Grinning widely, Jon praises the bird and strokes a finger along its red-and-green feathers and something nasty and petty takes root in Sansa’s chest. She can’t remember the last time he smiled like that.

(She can, though--and far too well--remember a time he smiled like that at her and did so often.)

As if he senses her staring at him, Jon’s eyes cut to her and the mere sight of her kills his smile entirely. He even frowns a little, reminding her that she’s a lady, a hostess, that she has duties, and Sansa gives Arrax one last pat before joining the fray.

 

* * *

 

Arya was right. They _are_ cold, Jon and Sansa, their politeness a frost creeping across the distance between them and touching everything around them. And with Sam showing Lord Hunder the plans drawn of the library he aims to build and everyone else gone, they lack someone else’s warmth to stop the frost from spreading. Escorting lady Tylene and her handmaiden around Winterfell should be an easy thing and yet they’re too careful to touch, to talk, to even look at one another--and lady Tylene notices. Oh, she says nothing, but the looks she shoots her handmaiden speaks volumes, and Sansa feels Alys tugging at the seams of her lady armor, begging to be let out and cloak Sansa in something warm and simple, and it’s so terribly easy to give in.

Will and Alys are the only roles she and Jon have to parade in front of strangers, and as she becomes Alys, he becomes Will--but soon she discovers that neither role fits anymore. Their once easy-going rapport creaks and rattles like an old wagon lumbering down an overgrown road. When one tries for a joke, the other is too slow to laugh. When one trails off, the other struggles to fill in the sentence. When one teases, the other flinches before brushing it off with an unconvincing grin.

If Lady Tylene notices this too, she doesn’t let on. She happily walks through the godswood, admires the heart-tree, lets ser Stripe, the monkey, climb up the broken tower while Arrax and the parrot explore freely, and then stops by the glass gardens, where Sansa and the children have planted flowers and herbs and vegetables. 

Tomato plants grow against a trellis, their branches full of fruits in every shade between green to red, and ser Stripe jumps from his lady’s shoulder to pick himself a tomato bigger than his little head.

“I didn’t know you had a passion for gardening, my lady.”

“It’s a new passion.”

“And a lovely one at that.” Tylene brushes her fingers over the Myrish glass. “And expensive. I can’t imagine this glass held during the battle of Winterfell? His Grace has been very generous to replace the glass for you.”

“I didn’t,” Jon says. “Bran took care of it while we were gone. He’s the one who planned most of the repairs after the war.” 

Tylene’s fingers move to a blossoming vine instead, examining it as she speaks. “Yes, I heard about your travels, Your Grace. Gone for months, no? I’m glad to see you’re both safe and sound.” Dipping her chin, she gives a charming smirk over her shoulder. “Had I been forced to be on the road with my sister for a few months, we surely would’ve ended up murdering one another.”

Jon and Sansa’s gazes meet, a blush creeping up her cheeks, and she averts her eyes, clasping her hands behind her back and straightening her posture.

“Oh, that’s right,” Tylene says. “Forgive me. It’s cousin, now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Jon tells his feet.

Tylene hums, nodding, and as Jon and Sansa both stand in complete, painful silence, she sweeps her gaze over them, thoughtfully, before patting her shoulder and leaving the glass gardens and the tension with ser Stripe back on his perch where he eats his tomato, the juices dripping down on his lady’s lovely silk.

 

* * *

 

Little Sam gawks at the monkey, the food on his plate forgotten even though Sansa made sure he’d get his favorite (mushroom pie) while the adults sup on snails soaked in honey and garlic, ripe blue cheese, roast swan stuffed with oysters, and other dishes at which he wrinkles his nose.

Lady Tylene plucks a date from the platter of cheese and fruits and leans closer to the child, ser Stripe holding onto her head with his tiny paws. “Would you like to feed him?”

Little Sam has barely had time to light up with joy before Lord Hunder shoots his daughter a firm look. “Tylene, you can play with your pet after supper. I’m sure His Grace would prefer manners befitting a lady at his table.”

Everyone turns to Jon for the king’s verdict, but Jon looks at Sansa. It's her castle, after all. He likes to remind her of that. Her castle and her rules (even though the guests are his).

“No one here will be offended by ser Stripe partaking in the meal,” Sansa says. “We often feed Ghost at the table. I know we shouldn’t but…” She pets the direwolf, who waits for a treat next to her chair with his red eyes as round and innocent as if he were a puppy rather than a lethal beast. “Who can say no to this beautiful face?” 

She gives Ghost a leg of swan and the crunch of bone between teeth wakes Arrax from his slumber by the hearth. Tail wagging, he trots over to Sansa where he sits down in a perfectly poised posture and patiently waits for her to treat him too.

“May I?” she asks Tylene.

“Ask him to shake your hand first. He likes doing little tricks.”

“Arrax. Shake hands.” Sansa holds out her hand and Arrax lifts his paw and lets her shake it before he returns to his position, bright and attentive. “Good boy,” she murmurs and gives him a swan leg as well. “He’s so well trained!”

“It’s the breed. They love it. And it’s a hobby of mine,” Tylene says, handing little Sam that date which he delightedly feeds to ser Stripe. “But Arrax doesn’t just obey anyone. He likes you.”

“Of course he does. I hand out treats. What dog wouldn’t like me?”

“No, he likes you.” Tylene winks at little Sam, who’s giggling and clapping his hands, and gives him another date to feed the monkey before smiling back at Sansa. “I can tell.”

Sansa rubs Arrax behind the ear. “And I like him. He’s a wonderful dog.”

Jon gives a Will-like smile that even now, even though she knows it isn’t real, sends her stomach fluttering. “You better be careful before you make Ghost jealous.”

“And I,” Tylene says, leaning closer to Jon, “better be careful before His Grace’s beautiful cousin steals my dog.”

Jon’s smile stiffens and he grabs his tankard of ale and swallows down a healthy mouthful.

“That must’ve been quite an adjustment.” Tylene’s gaze keeps shifting between them, anticipation in her breathing as if she’s eager to learn what Sansa imagines most of the North wonders about as well. “Going from sister and brother to cousins.”

“Not at all,” Sansa says with an ease she hopes is convincing. “We weren’t close as children.”

“I think I can count on one hand the number of times Sansa spoke to me back then--and I’d still have fingers to spare.”

Jon’s grin is charming in a self-deprecating way that leaves the room laughing, and Alys would’ve fed that happy energy by playfully teasing him back. But Sansa detects an edge in Jon’s voice, honed by old hurts that never fully healed, and she can’t think of anything to offer besides a perfunctory smile she quickly hides behind her cup of wine.

“But you’re close now, are you not?” Tylene’s gray eyes are narrowed and all too sharp. “Ghost might be a direwolf, but he’s still essentially a dog. If His Grace did not love his cousin, Ghost wouldn’t love her either. Just as Arrax would not like you had he felt animosity between us.”

“Well,” Sansa says and masks her discomfort by feeding Ghost and Arrax more of the swan. “I do give them treats.”

Tylene lets out a warm laugh, eyes sparkling. “If it’s that easy, may I give Ghost a treat as well?” She waits for Jon’s nod of consent before calling Ghost to her side and offering him a treat from her own plate. “I hope you forgive me, my lady, my king--I am undoubtedly delighted to meet you both--but the prospect of seeing Ghost in person…” She sighs contentedly as she admires Ghost snacking on his treat. “It’s a big reason as to why I joined my father rather than riding directly home. He’s even more magnificent than I imagined. I’m almost of a mind to venture beyond the Wall and find a pup for myself.”

Jon shakes his head. “You’d have to fight its mother for it.”

“I welcome a challenge.”

With a crooked smile, she leans back in her chair and pops a snail into her mouth with her fingers, unperturbed by her father’s muttering about manners, and Jon watches her with an amused smile that nourishes that root of jealousy in Sansa’s chest until it sprouts little tendrils of pettiness. She's not _that_ charming, Lady Tylene, and yet they all, even Podrick, Vanna, Sam, Gilly, and little Sam, seem to find Lady Tylene a breath of fresh air. (But maybe anyone would after spending weeks in the frosty company of the King in the North and Lady Stark.)

“I have another confession--or a question, rather. I’ve always wanted to see a dragon, ever since I was a little girl, but rumor has it they all died in the war. I was so heartbroken when I heard it. Please tell me the rumor isn’t true.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “They’re all gone.”

“And you don’t happen to have some little egg hidden somewhere?”

“No, thank the gods,” Sansa breathes out.

Tylene shifts her entire body to face Sansa, ostensibly eager to hear a story Sansa has no interest in sharing, and she stares down at her plate, wringing the napkin in her hands and cursing herself for the slip.

“Lady Sansa, are you all right?”

She looks up to find Tylene observing her with furrowed brow, but before Sansa’s had a chance to think of an answer Jon says, “One of the dragons almost burned her alive. Luckily, Podrick was there to push her out of the way.”

“But why? Lady Sansa is so lovely...”

Tylene’s voice fades as her eyes move between Jon and Sansa and Ghost--and to Sansa’s horror she sees a light of understanding in Tylene’s eyes. If Ghost loves Sansa because Jon does, then Drogon hated Sansa because his mother did. And isn’t that what happened? Sansa was never certain whether the Mother of Dragons truly aimed for her, but she must’ve looked into Sansa’s heart and seen a truth not even Sansa knew yet--and ended up jealous enough, possessive enough, that her beloved dragon acted on his mother’s feelings. And now Tylene knows it too--or at least suspects it.

“I’m sorry.” Sansa rises, the napkin fluttering to the floor. “I’ve had too much wine. I need some air.”

Jon shoots to his feet too, but she shakes her head at him and asks for Podrick instead, mumbling something about Jon taking care of their guests. 

 

The summer evening is too warm and humid to provide any relief, but at least the world outside is quiet and Podrick stays quiet too until they’re past the gates and strolling across the vast fields outside Winterfell beneath a sky that’s barely dark enough to show off its twinkling stars.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

In the distance, the people of Wintertown are already preparing for tomorrow’s fair and there’s not a single bit of her that wants to go. She wishes she was back at the farm, where life was easy and her heart warm and full and pretending wasn’t pretending at all.

Sometimes she feels like a widow, as silly as that sounds--and perhaps that’s what she must tell Jon. That she fell in love with the life at the farm, with the fantasy. That she fell in love with being Alys, a young woman who’d never suffered all of Sansa’s traumas and had a loving, understanding husband. She’ll tell Jon he needn’t worry about her or any unwanted feelings. She’s mourning the loss of something that never was real, never could be real, and it’ll pass likes it always does.

It’s close enough to the truth she thinks she could say it without faltering. It’s close enough it would explain her strange behavior. So close she could almost believe it herself.

“My lady? Should I get the maester?”

Sansa pulls herself out of her musings. “No. I’m fine, Podrick.”

“My lady, is she here…” He glances over his shoulder before looking back at her, pensive, holding the breath he should’ve used to finish his question. Then he exhales that breath, rubbing his neck. “Why did Arya leave?”

“She wanted to visit Gendry,” Sansa says and when Podrick looks at her, unconvinced, she adds, “You know what she’s like. Impulsive.”

Another glance at Winterfell and Podrick takes the smallest step closer. “I know I can’t replace your sister, my lady. But if you need someone to talk to--”

“I’d prefer not talking at all.”

With a gentle smile full of empathy, Podrick bows his head and proffers his arm, and they walk in silence together until the summer sky is as dark as it gets this time of year. Only then do they return to Winterfell. As they pass the Great Hall, sounds of happiness stream out from the cracked-open windows, all laughter and song and the skilled plucking of lute strings, and Sansa's heart clenches, just a bit. 

She should join them, she supposes, but Sansa walks on, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.

* * *

All morning she’s practiced her half-truth in the looking glass, and even now as Vanna is braiding her hair, Sansa’s repeating it like a mantra in her head to prevent her thoughts from wandering to memories of a day much like this, when she slipped into a dress now hidden in a chest beneath her bed. A dress she worked on in hopes of being noticed by a man who’d never look at her twice (or even once).

Gods but she was stupid and hopeful then.

“Isn’t it lovely,” Vanna says, twirling the braid into a bun, “that His Grace is joining you after all.”

Sansa gasps, meeting Vanna’s eyes through the reflection. “Jon’s coming?”

“They didn’t tell you? Lady Tylene convinced him last night. At least that’s what I heard. I went to bed when my lady did."

As she finishes up, Vanna prattles on about lady Tylene and how she, her father, Sam, and Jon drank for long enough that the scullery maids saw them leaving the Great Hall before sunrise, when the maids started their early day of lugging water and preparing the dough for this morning’s bread, and Sansa stares at her reflection until it’s a blur of copper and pink.

She can’t go to the fair. She can’t. The pain of what happened (what didn’t happen) that night in the Riverlands is too raw still--and Tylene is much too sharp. Oh, Sansa knows why she’s observing her and Jon, she knows what Podrick dared not ask last night. Lady Tylene might pretend she’s here to see Ghost or dragons, but Jon needs gold and the wealthy Lord Hunder has three daughters he needs to get rid of, and Sansa knows painfully well how that usually goes.

She knows Lady Tylene wants to make sure she doesn’t have a rival.

Jon won’t marry her, though. If he had any plans of marrying someone, he’d tell Sansa. She knows he would--and yet the worry persists, nurturing the nasty vine of jealousy that took root last night and now claws at the dam that keeps her emotions contained, searching for cracks where it can find purchase to wear down her defenses.

She has to sit by her vanity for a long moment to collect herself, to get used to that clawing sensation, before seeking out Jon.

He’s in his office, poring over some architectural drawing draped over his desk. She never comes here alone anymore and when he looks up from the plans and finds someone he didn’t expect, Jon rolls up the parchment quickly (too quickly) and shoots her an innocent smile.

The jealousy slithering around in her chest finds a terrible bedfellow in suspicion, and her thumb finds her palm and rubs and rubs and rubs.

“What is it?”

“I hear you’re going to the fair after all.”

“Aye. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I was glad to hear it; it means I can stay at home."

Jon’s mouth drops open. “But you love it. The music and the--”

“If I want music, I’ll have Podrick sing for me. He has quite a lovely voice and he knows all my favorite songs."

Jon huffs out a breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. “If you’re staying home for my sake, you don’t have to. We can exist in the same place at the same time.”

“We do? I thought one of us always had to do paperwork.”

“Sansa.” He heaves a sigh, pressing his thumb against his forehead. “I’ve only been trying to--”

“I know what you’ve been trying to do. And I’m grateful--I am--but did it ever occur to you that you might be making it worse? You keep reminding me of what I lost and this fair… It was my last day with--with Fria. And it was a good day. At least until--” She clenches her hands, unclenches them. “I don’t want to be reminded! I want to move on! I want to be _Sansa_."

Jon leans against his desk with a heavy exhale. “I understand."

A moment of silence passes, but then Jon draws a breath as if to speak and this conversation can only move to places she's unprepared to go and she flees to her office to bury herself in work. It proves an impossible thing, though, those plans haunting her thoughts. If it were Sam’s library or Arya’s orphanage or any other building they’ve discussed, would Jon be so quick to roll up the parchment? No, it's a secret. A secret architectural plan kept by a castleless king--and if he keeps _that_ a secret, wouldn’t he keep plans of finding himself a wife secret too? 

The collar of her dress presses against her throat. She pulls the laces open. No. Jon doesn’t want to get married.

 _He doesn’t want to get married to you,_ her jealousy whispers and it keeps whispering nasty little things all day, all evening. No matter how she tries to occupy herself with work or reading or knitting, that voice still reaches her. And by the time darkness has fallen and Jon knocks on her door, the worry has gnawed her so raw everything about him irritates her. The sharp clacks of his heels, the endless rustle of his clothes, the enervating wheeze of his breathing, the wet noises of his lips... She's one noise away from screaming at him to leave her alone! Gods, if she could only be left alone for once. If she could only get a moment where she needn’t pretend in front of _anyone_. It’s all she’s done since she left home! Pretend and pretend and pretend. That she loves people she hates, that she hates people she loves, that nothing affects her at all when _everything_ does.

“Lord Hunder has invited me to join them to Saltshore tomorrow,” Jon says and it takes all the strength she has left to hide how something inside her breaks. “I’d be gone for a few days. He has some matters he’d like to discuss.” Jon pauses, as if to give her room to say something, but she can’t do anything but wait for more awful words. “I haven’t accepted yet. If I go, you’ll be alone. There would be no one to protect you.”

“I have Podrick,” she says in a voice that doesn’t sound, doesn’t feel like her own.

“Podrick.” Jon shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t do that. You always look down on him. But he saved my life.”

“By pushing you out of the way. It’s not as if he _slayed_ a dragon.”

“He was brave and quick. And he’s improved as a fighter. I do watch you sometimes, you know, when you spar. Arya and Brienne have trained him well.”

“I know.” Exhaling, Jon rubs at his forehead. “I don’t like leaving you alone, that’s all.”

“Then whatever Lord Hunder wants to discuss must be important.”

Jon nods, head bowed to his chest. “Aye. It’s important.”

“I’ll be fine, Jon. In fact,” she says, her heart beating a little faster, heating up her blood until she’s flushed, “I was just wishing for some time to myself.”

He looks up at her then, eyes dark under a knitted brow.

“You’re not the only one who needs time alone, Jon. I’ve barely been able to breathe since we got back.”

His jaw works as he goes back to staring at the floor. “You could’ve said no. If you hated it that much. I thought you liked it. Or I wouldn’t have--”

“I didn’t hate it. I’ve had a wonderful time.”

“But?”

“But… Sometimes you can get too much even of the things you love.”

He huffs out a breath, sword hand twitching. “Maybe I should stay longer, then. Give you your castle to yourself for a week.”

Her heart beats faster still, her body flooded with the oddest mix of anger and fear and excitement as she speaks words that could cost her what she loves the most but also cut her free from what weighs her down. “I suppose it’s my turn. To give you a chance to get away. Do your paperwork for you.”

Lips pressed thin, Jon nods slowly, and it almost feels like release. 

 

* * *

 

The rosy morning sky leaves Winterfell in an insultingly romantic glow, as if Sansa were a lady wife seeing off her lord husband. But while readying his horse, Jon hasn’t thrown a glance at the balcony even once and that feeling of release morphs into an aching need. Lord Hunder and his company are already seated in the carriage while Tylene is mounted, surrounded by her three pets and making smalltalk with Jon that Sansa can’t hear. 

Clutching the railing hard, she stares at him as he swings himself up in the saddle and follows their guests as they head toward the gate. That aching need grows with each step of his horse, as if part of their souls were entwined and now strain to stay together, that bond stretching so thin it might snap. _Look at me. Look back at me. Please._ Sansa’s eyes prickle with tears she blinks away. _Look at me. Just once._

He’s at the gates now. She feels sick. He’s going to leave, leave _her_ , and she can’t stand to watch him following another woman into a new future where there’s no room for her.

She releases the railing and moves to leave--but then Jon’s horse stops and he turns around and looks over his shoulder, scanning the walkways until he finds her. Their gazes meet. Sansa lifts her hand in a wave and, lips curved in the smallest of smiles, Jon returns the gesture and she knows she’s ridiculous.

Jon won’t marry Tylene. He won’t. No matter how strained things have become between him and Sansa, he wouldn’t consider marriage to the point of visiting his intended and meeting the rest of her family without consulting Sansa first. She’s not just his cousin but his adviser too. He wouldn’t do that to her.

Not Jon.

 

* * *

 

By some magic, she manages to keep Jon out of her thoughts the following days and, oddly enough, she finds that her words were true. It _is_ nice to have the castle to herself. With no one in front of whom to pretend, she starts feeling like herself again. Younger, lighter, freer. She works and she gardens and she bakes and she knits and she _breathes_. Last night she even fell asleep at a reasonable hour and for the first time in weeks she woke up without finding that anxiety had stitched her shoulders to her ears during the night. 

As she returns from the glass gardens with bunches of herbs she’ll hang to dry in her office, she’s even humming to herself. Once Jon comes home, she’ll be ready to ease back into some kind of amiable relationship. They _can_ exist in the same place. The day with Tylene, even if it wasn’t entirely friction-less, proved Jon right about that.

A giggle breaks through her thoughts. Hushing noises follow. Normally, she would’ve walked on, knowing that sometimes servants steal a moment to themselves. But when she hears Jon mentioned, Sansa sneaks closer to the source of the noises and finds two maids gossiping as they stir bed linen in a large cauldron of boiling water.

“That’s why he left,” Greta, the older maid says, and Sansa moves closer still and ducks into a nook where shadows obscure her. “He’s marrying her and moving to her castle.”

“No.” Hilda, a new maid that came to Winterfell during Sansa’s absence, shakes her head. “That’s not true. Lady Tylene’s never marrying. She ain’t got the taste for it, and she ain’t got the taste for men either.”

Greta’s eyes widen, her mouth forming an intrigued _ooh_. “Likes a _softer_ touch, does she?”

“No touch at all, I hear. That lady’s never marrying, and she’s told her father as much.”

“And how would you know.”

“My cousin’s her handmaiden.” Hilda wipes sweat off her forehead and keeps stirring. “Told me all about it when they visited, didn’t she.”

Sansa smiles her relief and starts walking away with happy steps--only to slow to a stop again, her smile fading, when Hilda continues.

“Her sister, on the other hand. She’s looking to marry the king. That’s why Lady Tylene came. Their mama’s dead, and Lady Tylene wanted a good look at the king before her papa invited him over. So many rumors, ain’t there, about him and the wildlings and the dragon queen and Lady--”

Greta slaps her on the arm. “And things we shouldn’t discuss.”

“Yeah, all right. No need to hit me.”

“Suppose she must’ve liked what she saw, then. Lady Tylene. Since he left with them and all.” 

Sansa’s knees feel like water, her head feels like air, and she sags against the stone wall, presses a hand against the cool surface to ground herself.

“Lady Cilda is a beauty. Never seen her myself, but that’s what I’ve heard. She’s just the king’s taste as well. Red hair, wouldn’t you know it.” Hilda grins. “Maybe someone should’ve told him lady Stark’s got red hair.”

“Shh!” Greta gives her another slap on the arm. “None of that. We don’t talk about that.”

“But everyone said, what with them being gone so long--”

“They didn’t, though, did they? I don’t want anymore talk like that about lady Stark. She’s a good girl and she’s got talked about enough in her life. We don’t tolerate it here. I’ll slap you all the way back to Mole’s Town if I catch you doing it again.”

“She ain’t his type anyway. Not a fighter, is she? But lady Cilda rides and hunts. She can use a bow and arrow from horseback, like a Dothraki. She’s as good with a sword as…”

Sansa pushes herself off the wall and staggers away, her body moving on its own, weaving between workers in the courtyard, smiling at those who greet her, climbing up the stairs and into the keep, and suddenly she’s in Jon’s office, rifling through his documents until she finds the secret plans with its inky lines and Moat Cailin printed in the corner with a neat hand.

The castleless king won’t remain castleless for long, then.

Sansa’s blood, her thoughts, her feelings rush within her, all loud and forceful like a waterfall drowning out the world, and she gets lost in that roar, pulled into the stream and drifting away. She even feels how it moves beneath her, rocking to and fro like gentle waves lapping against the dam she built around the maelstrom of her emotions.

Far away, at the edge of the world, a voice calls to her, and the world rushes back in, smells sharp and colors vivid. Cinnamon. Red wine. Leather. Wool. The pretty purples, pinks, and yellows of the wildflower bouquet in the tin vase. The warm brown of Podrick’s kind eyes watching her with worry.

Although she can’t remember leaving Jon’s office, she’s now in her own, seated in her rocking chair with a cup of wine in her hand and a blanket draped over her lap. She licks her lips, tasting them. She’s had wine at least, but not one of the cinnamon cakes waiting for her on a plate next to the vase of flowers on the table.

“I really do think I should call for the maester,” Podrick says and she blinks at him, trying to find a thread of memory to explain how she ended up here but she can’t remember a thing. “You asked me not to? Remember?”

“Yes. Yes, I remember.”

“What happened?”

“I forgot to eat…” She glances out the window and finds the world outside sunny and bright. “Breakfast. I’m a bit light headed, that’s all.” With a smile plastered on her face, she takes a cake and eats it dutifully. "I feel much better already."

Podrick closes all the shutters, makes sure both doors to her office are closed, tops off her cup and fills one for himself before sitting back down in the chair he’s moved close to her rocking chair. “Has His Grace sent you a raven?”

“No. Why?”

“I thought…” He examines her face and she knows she’s pale as snow, feels as cold as it. “There are rumors, my lady. Lots of them. That the king is going to return with a bride. That they’ll move to the Dreadfort or Moat Cailin or even Castle Black. But they’re just rumors. I’ve not heard His Grace--or any of his advisers--say anything of the sort. You know what people are like. They’re just guessing, making a game of it.”

“Sometimes they guess correctly.” She rests the rim of the cup against her bottom lip before returning the wine unsipped to the table. “Jon needs an heir. It’s about time he found a wife.”

Podrick takes her hand, his skin warm and dry, his eyes so gentle she averts her own. “You don’t have to pretend with me, my lady.”

Sansa stares at the wool blanket draped over her lap, her mind as blank, as white.

“No one else knows. You hide it well.”

She pulls her hand from his. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All right. I suppose I need to go first,” Podrick says and it baits her well enough that she looks up from the blanket after all. “I love someone too. And, apparently, I’ve hidden it well. Just like my lady.”

The kindness in his gaze gives way for heartache, and all the little things she’s noticed over the weeks without reflecting on come together and paints a picture she was too self-absorbed, too self-pitying to see.

“Arya,” she says and Podrick smiles sadly. “She doesn’t love you back? Is it Gendry?”

Podricks shrugs, the corners of his mouth tugged down. 

“But...” Sansa frowns and says her next realization out loud before she can help herself. “You’ve been intimate.”

“That’s not for me--” His cheeks burn bright red. “I don’t. My lady, it’s not--”

“It’s all right. I might’ve believed once that those things only had a place inside a marriage, but I know better now. She’s a grown woman and I’m not her mother.” She takes two cinnamon cakes and hands one to Podrick. “She doesn’t want to settle down, does she.”

He takes a bite, shaking his head. "I thought I could enjoy it for what it is. I have before, with other women. But she's different. And I'm not, at least not to her."

“It’s her loss,” Sansa says and when Podrick shakes his head again, she tips forward, her toes pushing against the floor, to lean in closer and nod sincerely at him. “You’re a good man, Podrick. Any lady would be lucky to have you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He washes down his cake with wine and then turns the cup in his hands, deliberating, and she eats her cake while she waits. “Why…” Then he shakes his head, mumbling that it’s not his place, and she assures him it’s all right before he continues. “My lady, why don’t you and the king marry? Wouldn’t it solve everything? I don’t think anyone would mind. I really don’t. Half of Winterfell thought you’d come back married.”

“He doesn’t love me, Podrick.”

“Forgive me, but I think you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.” 

His eyes shift between hers and then he scoots his chair even closer, speaking in a murmured voice. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I serve you not him…”

She nods at him to go on.

“The day I left for the farm, Jon sent a raven to Odden and Fria. With your brother’s help. They knew I was coming all along. He’d already carved the goblet, even before the raven. It was Fria’s idea. She thought maybe you’d end up stopping by one day, if you were in the Riverlands to visit your uncle Edmure, and she thought, since you’d married in secret, that you’d never received a wedding goblet. The farm was Odden’s idea. But the wolves. My lady, Jon asked Odden to carve the wolves. He told them a little about everyone in your family and that gift?” Podrick nods at the figurine standing on the mantelpiece. “It’s from Jon. And so is the soap. Fria laughed about that. What queen would need her old soap, she said. But Jon was adamant in the letter. Just as he was adamant I wouldn't tell you."

It takes Sansa several slow sips of wine to calm herself, to blink away the tears prickling her eyes, and Podrick, wonderful Podrick, waits until she has her feelings in check before resuming.

“He keeps trying to make you happy, my lady. Perhaps it’s his way of telling you he loves you without saying it.”

Shaking her head, Sansa tightens her arms around herself. “It’s not like that,” she whispers. “It’s guilt. I’ve made it perfectly clear that I… And marrying _would_ solve our problems, but he can’t do it. And so he tries to make me happy by doing everything he can except the one thing--”

Her voice breaks, the tears returning to her eyes, and she fights and fights. She will not break. She still hasn’t cried over him. Not once. She has to keep it all contained or she’ll lie useless in her bed and sob into her pillow while all of Winterfell whispers about the broken girl who fell for her brother.

“He gives me everything except the one thing I want. He can’t, because he doesn’t love me. At least not in that way.”

“Then it’s his loss. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

Sansa gives a watery laugh. “That really is a poor comfort, isn’t it.”

"Yes," Podrick says, laughing too, and even though her heart is shattered into a million pieces, laughing together eases the pain and she reaches out for his hand to hold, to squeeze in gratitude.

“Thank you. For listening. For making me talk.”

“We’ll be all right, you and me, my lady. We’ll be heartbroken for a while, but we’ll heal. And Jon won’t come home with a bride. I’m not going to pretend I know his heart, but I do know that. He wouldn’t do that without telling you first.”

“I don’t think he would either,” she whispers with an almost desperate smile. “I really don’t. And yet…”

“He _won’t_.”

“He won’t,” she says, nodding. “He won’t.”

 

They spend the rest of the evening chatting and drinking wine, and when she grows tired, she asks Podrick to sing for her. Something happy and fun and not even remotely about love while she leans back in her rocking chair and enjoys the lull. She’s unaware of falling asleep until she wakes in her bed by someone tugging off her boots, and she sits up, panicked, only to find that, even if Podrick must’ve been the one to carry her to her chambers, it’s Vanna who’s undressing her. Half-asleep, Sansa lets her handmaiden divest her of dress and corset and chemise, and help her into her nightgown. And when she falls asleep anew, it’s the first time since she got home that she hasn’t needed her nose buried in the shawl to do so. 

When she wakes the following morning she knows it’s time. Time to move on, time to be Sansa. For as long as she keeps the last reminders of her time as Alys she never will. Gingerly, she tucks the shawl into the chest, closes the lid, and locks it. She doesn’t allow herself to linger and examine each object hidden therein. Instead she gets dressed and breaks her fast and calls for Podrick. Together they’ll head out into the wolfswood and burn her pointless hope that a bouquet of flower will mean something. That arranging her office and little outings and even sending a raven to Odden and Fria all mean something when they never did and never will.

As they reach the courtyard, however, Gertie and her little brother run up to them and remind Sansa that she’d promised them to plant carrots, beets, and potatoes in the glass gardens, and they head there first and work until their hands are dirty and backs are tired and the children are content. Sansa’s just stretching out her aching body, preparing to leave, when Sam scurries up to them, his cheeks flushed and eyes glittering, and she rushes up to him equally happy.

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking all over,” he says at the same time as she breathes out an excited, “The baby? The baby has come?”

“What? No. Not yet. Although she should come soon, I think. It’s Jon. He’s home.”

Sansa’s stomach tightens into a knot of half worry, half hope. “Already?”

“He came home early. With a surprise!” Sam looks as if he’s about to burst while Sansa feels as if she’ll fall in on herself. “He wants you to come to his office, Sansa. Now.” Sam bounces on the balls of his feet. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’d like to freshen up first. I’m dirty.”

“Oh, she won’t care how you look. Oh!” He presses his fingers to his lips as if he could take that slip and shove it back inside and swallow it. “I shouldn’t say anything else. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

He looks so happy, Sam. Happy and sparkling and so excited he can’t stand still. And why wouldn’t he be. His best friend has finally found someone to love after mourning Ygritte, the love of his life, for years. And now Jon will marry lady Cilda and have red-haired babies with her and little Sam and baby Fern will grow up with Jon’s sons and daughters in Moat Cailin. It’s even close to Saltshore, the Hunders’ castle. Lady Cilda will want to live close to her parents. Especially when the children come.

He looks so happy, Sam, while Sansa is falling apart.

Everyone in the courtyard stares at her, whispers, smiles. They’ve seen Jon’s bride, then. All excited for their king to finally wed. For the North to have a little prince or princess in a year’s time. Sansa leans on Podrick’s arm the whole way to her chambers, where he lays the chest on a table while she pours water into the washbasin and cleans the dirt off her hands with hard white soap.

“It might not mean what you think it means.”

“What else would it be? Sam said _she_.” She scrubs her skin until it’s red. “Jon’s found his bride.”

She scrubs and scrubs, glaring at the chest which mocks her from its spot on the table. A chest full of stupid hopes and dreams she didn’t have a chance to burn before they burned her. She throws in the gray soap too. The flowers pressed between the pages of a book. 

Jon once said that he didn’t know her favorite flowers, but she doesn’t have a favorite. The ones she loves the best are the ones given to her by someone else--and these she treasured the most, regardless of shape or name or color, despite it all. Because she’s a stupid little girl who never learns and her eyes sting and how _could_ he? Without a single warning. And now she’ll have to smile at his wedding and pretend she's happy and she can’t breathe. She tugs at her dress, tugs at the laces of her corset, scrambling to get out of the suffocating prison.

Warm hands close around hers, stilling them. “My lady, what can I do? Can I get you something? Someone?”

“We could leave.” The words come out in a feverish rush. “After I’ve met her. Please? We’ll go to the Wall or to my cousin Robin or anywhere. Anywhere but here. I can’t be here. I can’t."

Podrick nods. “I’ll pack my things and ready the horses, my lady.”

He closes the door behind him and Sansa sinks down on the bed, fingers absentmindedly unlacing her bodice, her corset, allowing her to catch her breath. And once she feels calm again, once she trusts the dam she’s built to hold when she finally lays eyes on Jon’s love, she seals herself in a clean corset, in a clean dress, both laced as tightly as she can without help. 

Someone knocks on the door. Slowly, she turns her head and stares at the wood as if it will glide open on its own. There’s a gaping emptiness where her heart should be, and perhaps that should be painful, but it’s not. It’s nothing. She feels nothing.  

“Sansa?” Jon pauses. “Are you all right. We’ve been waiting for a while.”

“Coming,” her voice says as her body moves across the floor and opens the door. “I was really dirty…”

Her eyes land on the surprise in Jon’s arms and she stares and stares and stares without understanding. She’s dappled white and gray, with big brown paws and perky brown ears and the prettiest amber eyes Sansa’s ever seen. And there’s ribbon around her neck, a blue silk ribbon tied in a beautiful bow.

“You… got a puppy.”

“I got _you_ a puppy.”

“I don’t under…” She takes a shuddering breath, her eyes filling with tears. “What?” 

"She's yours." He steps into the room and fills her arms with the sweetest dog in all the world. "I got her for you."

“I love puppies,” Sansa whispers, burying her nose in that silky fur.

“I know,” Jon says, softly, and then the first tears spill over and the dam breaks.


End file.
